Sanctuary
by Claudia3
Summary: Ten/Rose, Donna, post JE. The Doctor has more problems adjusting to his new form than it seems. Unable to open up to Rose, he does what he does best: Run. But only when he is forced to stop does he go on the journey that will show him who he really is.
1. Part 1 Chapters 1 to 7, Part 1

Part 1

Title: Sanctuary

Author: Cloud aka wildwinterwitch

Pairing: Human!Ten/Rose, Pete'sWorld!Donna

Rating: T

Genre: hurt/comfort, romance, angst

Disclaimer: They all belong to RTD and the BBC; all I get is reviews, for which I'm most grateful. Characters you do not recognise from the show are mine, however.

Summary: The Doctor has more problems adjusting to his new form than it seems. Unable to open up to Rose, he does what he does best: Run. But only when he is forced to stop does he go on the journey that will show him who he really is.

Warning: When you read the first chapter you will see that I have messed with canon, but this did not happen out of inconsiderateness or laziness. I have taken away the Doctor's ability to speak English, and you will find out why as you read. You will get a perfectly reasonable explanation for my decision, one that is even canon-compliant. I'm taking writing fanfic seriously, I put a lot of research and thoughts into this so as not to offend anyone.

Author's Notes: I am not a doctor myself, so any errors in the Doctor's treatment are mine alone. I have also decided to add some changes to Pete's World: I've made Munich the capital of Germany and La Gioconda can be seen in the Uffizi in Florence (when in real life it's Berlin and Paris respectively).

-:-

Part 1

Chapters 1 – 7 (Part 1)

He was gone the next morning.

It had been dark by the time they had returned to her place in London. Rose had never been so glad when the door closed behind them with a quiet sound. Here at least she knew what to do, here actually was something to do.

"What about a drink?" She mimicked drinking by way of providing subtitles for him. After the Doctor and Donna had left, he had remained oddly silent, clasping her hand in his as though he were holding on for dear life. He had opened his mouth then, wanted to say something, more than just her name.

"Rose? Allons-y?" The imperative had turned into a question. It had sounded strained, as though it took him a lot of will-power to utter the words. So different from a few heartbeats and a small eternity ago when he had asked her to love him.

"Oh ... my." It was only then that she had understood something. Separated from the TARDIS, there was nothing to provide a translation of the words being exchanged for him. All he could rely on was her name and set pieces of languages that had once taken his fancy.

Three words. Well, expressions. But that's what it came to.

Rose.

Allons-y.

Molto bene.

"This is not molto bene," Rose had said, softly, chagrined. Yet she had managed to smile at him, and give his hand a tug. "Molto bene." And after a beat or two, had added: "Doctor."

He looked at her just as crestfallen, and offered her an intense look of excuse. At the moment, his eyes had been more eloquent than he had ever been in her presence. She had wrapped her arms around him and pulled him into her in a fierce hug.

"We'll be all right," she had whispered. "D'you hear? We'll be all right. Molto bene, Doctor."

The journey home had been rather silent, Jackie having picked up on the situation very quickly. She had said nothing, but her eyes had spoken volumes. They had separated at the Zeppelin port, mother and daughter only talking briefly.

Now he nodded and followed her into the kitchen. She could feel his eyes on her as she removed whatever drinks she had in her fridge and put them on the counter for him to choose from. She took two glasses from one of the cabinets and set them next to the assortment of containers.

"What would you like?" she asked slowly, careful to pronounce everything clearly and correctly. "This is ... jus' ... never mind." He was not a child. He was half Time Lord, easily the most intelligent man she had ever met, and here she was talking to him in this way. As if this wasn't bad enough for him as it was.

"Can't you," she began, meeting his attentive gaze, "y'know, do this telepathically? Learnin' English? You are still a telepath, yeah?" She stepped towards him, and reached up to gently touch his temples, to show him what she'd meant.

His eyes went wide, and he took a quick step back. He caught her hands by her wrists and pushed her hands away. "No. No. Nonononono."

Another word he knew.

"But why ever not?"

He explained. It was the most beautiful sound Rose had ever heard, and for a moment she was glad she wasn't supposed to listen to what he said. His voice had taken on a slightly different quality as he talked in his native tongue. It sounded musical, and not like anything she had ever heard. Not as rushed as back when the TARDIS had translated for them. Serene, almost. And then he stopped.

"I don' understand you," Rose said, taking a step back. He let go of her wrists.

He looked chagrined again, and reached out for her. Rose accepted his warm hand. It was still strange that it should be warm, like any man's, rather than cool, as she had come to know it.

Any man.

No. He definitely was not any man.

She smiled, but had no idea if he was still a telepath.

He eventually chose the blue water bottle, and Rose poured some. "Water it is," she commented.

He touched her arm, then gestured for her to repeat the word. "Water," he repeated after her. He had a little difficulty with the unfamiliar sounds at first. But of course he managed. "Water. Water. Water."

"Yeah," Rose said. "Water."

She then had hastily cleared the bed in the spare bedroom which had become her study. The books and magazines and folders that covered the bed she swept up and piled them on the halfway neat desk. When she worked on a project she had taken to laying out all her research on the bed to keep an overview of what she had.

The Doctor was standing in front of the wall lined with books. Rose remembered her shop-girl self then, from what seemed to her now had been ages ago and literally in a different life. The old Rose Tyler had never cared much for her education, or at least the one they had wanted to impress on her at school. Ever since she had made a new life here in Pete's World, she had been trying to remedy this, and there was so much to discover, literature that her home planet never had.

Rose watched the Doctor trailing his fingers over the colourful spines of the volumes on the shelves. He was lost in his thoughts, or just appreciating what he saw. She had no way of knowing.

She pulled a volume of Shakespeare off the shelf. He had wanted to take her to one of the Bard's plays, but they had never managed. The book was one of the oldest volumes she possessed, dated back to the early 18th century.

But then she realised.

He wouldn't be able to understand a single word from it.

"Rose?"

Was it going to be like this? Her name a question?

Rose looked up at him, and handed him the volume. "It's my favourite. It's Shakespeare. Love's Labour's Won."

His lips curved into a smile. Names didn't translate, and so he dipped his hand into the pocket of his blue jacket.

The expression on his face when he didn't find his spectacles was priceless, and Rose broke in to a fit of giggles.

"I'm sorry," she managed, forcing herself to sober. This really wasn't funny. The Doctor was just as lost without his spectacles as without his English words. "We'll have to get you a new pair tomorrow."

"I'm sorry," he repeated. And meant it.

Rose swallowed. "Don't. You don't have to." She left him to the Shakespeare then, busying herself with his bed once more.

She whipped up some risotto for them afterwards, with mangel and goat's cheese, because it demanded her attention, adding wine and stock one bit at a time. They ate in silence, listening to some music Rose had put on. At one point, the Doctor reached out for her, and covered her hand with his, squeezing it in what Rose took to be gratefulness. She wanted to kiss him to bits in that moment, but there was something in his eyes that begged her not to.

When it was time to go to bed, all she could give him was towels and an extra toothbrush she had meant to replace her own with the next morning. There was nothing in her wardrobe that would fit him.

The Doctor, however, had discovered a picture in one of the many frames she kept on the mantel in her spare bedroom. "Tony?" he asked.

Rose joined him at the mantel. She smiled, as she always did when she looked at her brother's picture. "Yeah, tha's him. Mum says he looks just like me at that age. I guess she's right. We've lost all my pictures," she explained. "I never cared much about them back ... I wish I did, though."

He did something very unexpected then. He kissed her temple, and whispered "I'm sorry". Little did she suspect then that this was his good-bye to her, because when she woke the next morning, much earlier than usual after a restless night, his bed was empty and cold. How come she had not heard him leave? Had she fallen asleep long enough after all?

A yellow sticky note sat on his pillow, a sticky note with a heart drawn on it, and an x.

That was before she discovered he had taken the notes from her purse.

-:-

Four days later, the first postcard arrived. Rose's heart skipped a beat when she recognised it. Her address had woken her curiosity first, since none of her friends had told her they had planned a trip to Paris. Maybe a spontaneous trip, considering the events, despite the incessant downpour that had set in after she had shared the risotto with the Doctor in her kitchen. But she didn't recognise the handwriting. It looked awkward, the letters drawn, like a child's that has just learned to print his name. The message was the same as the sticky note he had left on his pillow, a heart and an x.

"He is in Paris!" she practically shouted down the phone.

"Rose?" Pete sounded concerned.

"The Doctor! He's in Paris, or at least he was," Rose tried to decipher the date in the postmark, "three days ago."

"How do you know?" Pete's furrowed brow was audible over the phone. He had had Torchwood do everything to find the Doctor once Rose had called him, raising him and Jackie from sleep early on Sunday morning.

"He sent a postcard."

Silence. "He did what?"

"He must have copied my address from the post in my study."

"Are you absolutely sure it's from him?" Pete's tone was urgent, but calm.

Rose took a breath. "It's a heart and an x."

Pete knew about the sticky note, of course. "When can you be here?"

"I'm practically on my way," Rose said as she wrestled into a light trench coat. She had hardly dared set a foot outside her flat, just in case the Doctor returned and she wasn't home, despite her better knowledge. The Doctor had gone travelling again, without her this time. All the while, Torchwood had done everything in their power to find the man, without success. The Doctor knew enough about Earth to pay cash, and travelling across Europe did not require any form of identification any more, particularly not if he chose to travel by train. Just how he came by the tickets was beyond Rose. You usually had to talk to people to buy things.

The half human version of the Doctor had Torchwood stumped. They knew little enough about Time Lords as such, since their kind had never existed in this reality, so they had nothing to go by in their search for the Doctor. He had one heart, like everybody else, nothing but his intellect set him apart from the rest. Pete had told her early on that chances they would find him were pretty much zilch.

All they could do was wait.

When Rose arrived at Torchwood, Pete had already put up a map in one of the smaller conference rooms. A red line linked London and Paris and Jake Simmonds was already waiting for them in a room overlooking the Thames.

"I have made this a matter for decision at the top level," Pete explained after Rose had closed the door behind them. "The case needs discretion."

"The Doctor's a case now?" Rose pointed out.

"Not like any other case," Pete replied. "Or do you want the tabloids in this?" He pointed at an assortment of newspapers on the table. Naturally, the paparazzi had sneaked up on Rose and the Doctor upon their return from Bad Wolf Bay. "Who is he?", "Rose's beau" and some such the headlines read, accompanied by photos of herself and the Doctor.

"Well, at least we have photographs of him," Rose said, dropping one of the papers on the table. That's more than I have of him, she thought bitterly. "What do you suggest?"

"That we do nothing. Ignoring them might be the best we can do. They'll cross him off as a one-night stand."

Rose drew in a sharp breath, but did nothing to contradict Pete. She knew he was right, even when everything within her cried something else. She produced the postcard from her bag and handed it over to Jake. Whatever knowledge they could draw from it, they ought to have. Rose's mind had gone oddly blank. She felt like she had on her first day with Torchwood, like a fish out of the water.

Jackie, of course, had been furious that particular Sunday morning. "How dare he!?" she cried, startling Tony, who looked up from his game wide-eyed. Jackie sat down beside her little son, pulling him into her arms. "No, not you, sweetheart." She kissed his blond head. "How dare he, though?" she repeated, calmer this time.

"He didn't say," Rose replied softly, at a total loss. Was it something she had done? Had it been too much, or too little? She was playing with one of Tony's blocks, and when she looked at her mother, she couldn't help crying. "I don't want to lose him again, Mum. I love him."

Jackie drew her daughter into her embrace, and she kissed her hair, too. "I know, sweetheart, I know." For lack of anything better to say – for what could she say that wasn't a lie? – she just sat and held her children close to her.

The next postcard arrived three days later, from Munich. Her address looked a little bit less awkward, and the drawing of the heart had gained an artistic touch. All they had learned from the Paris postcard was that it had been posted in the 18th arrondissement. Montmartre, famous for its artists and Bohemians.

"That's just like him," Rose had said, when Jake had given her the information. There was no point in sending someone from Torchwood to Paris to look for the proverbial needle. The fact that he had posted the card in Montmartre didn't mean he had stayed there.

"How does he get by? All these languages, and he doesn't even speak English! How long will the money last?" she wondered. She had kept about £250 in her purse; she knew because she had been to the bank just before Jake had alerted her to the events that had led to Bad Wolf Bay.

"He's clever," Pete said. "He'll find a way to get by. I know I did when I travelled Europe as a student."

Pete was probably right, particularly since the Doctor was a very resourceful man.

Rose herself drew the line that connected Paris to Munich. Afterwards, she went to the Torchwood Library to look up the places he had gone to, Munich first, then Paris. What was it that he was looking for in these places? What did Paris and Munich have in common, apart from being capitals? She found nothing if not a desire to travel to these places herself.

From Munich, he sent a second card, which arrived two days after the first one. Instead of the heart and x, he had written a short message. His handwriting looked a bit more practised now, although it still looked too perfect to be an expression of personality.

Rose, I love you. I'm sorry.

He had not signed his name, or sent a kiss.

"How did he do that?" Jackie wondered as she looked at the card. "He could barely speak in Norway, and now this?"

Rose swallowed. "I have to go after him, Mum."

Jackie merely nodded. Rose had made her decision, and there was no changing that. The best Jackie could do was to support Rose, and she did not have to energy to try to persuade her otherwise. Rose had proven her wrong when she had gone to look for the Doctor the first time; she had found him, across realities even – how could she not believe in her ability to find him when he was on the same continent (technically)?

"Do you have to go alone, though?" Jackie asked. She would rather Mickey be with her; or Jake.

"I promise I'll give you a ring twice a day," Rose said, hugging her mother.

"Why does he do that to you, Rose?" she asked, sadly shaking her head. "I saw him with you on that beach."

"That's exactly why," Rose replied. "Not because you were there." When he had touched her arm and bent to whisper the three words to her, the world had stopped around them, everything but themselves had ceased to exist for those precious few heartbeats. "He ... he does not want me to ... to be with him when ..." Rose faltered. She drew a deep breath. "I think it's all my fault; the way I was pushing him away, making him feel second best."

"Oh sweetie don't say that!" Jackie exclaimed, despite herself. She had been there with them after all. But she could not admit to Rose that she might be right, not when she knew what it meant to take care of the Doctor. Jackie remembered him well from when she had first met him. And Rose had worked her magic on him, but at a cost, and Jackie was not sure if Rose could do it a second time. Not here, on Earth, grounded, without the distractions that the universe offered.

"Oh Mum," Rose sighed.

"I'll go to your place every day to check the post for more cards from God knows where," Jackie eventually said. "Provided you give us a ring whenever there's news."

Rose boarded the train to Munich alone. Jake had been called away to a case up north, and there was no one else Rose wanted in on the search for the Doctor. Pete had grudgingly agreed. Just like his wife he didn't think Rose's approach was the best of ideas, but he loved Rose dearly, and if it made her happy he was ready to give her his full support. It was better than her going up the walls.

She had to change trains in Paris, and then once more before she arrived in Munich about ten hours after she'd left London. Her busy mind had kept her from sleeping properly on the train, and she'd barely read a page of the novel she'd brought. The Doctor had travelled this way; she had bought a new notebook at a stationer's at St Pancras to keep track of her movements and her expenses. In this way Rose hoped to find out just how long the money would last the Doctor. It was well worth a try, even though she knew very well the Doctor's knack of getting by without money. The fact that he didn't speak English, however, narrowed his chances of talking people into giving him what is was that he wanted.

Rose found herself a quiet corner in a café near the hotel she wanted to stay at, and ordered some strong coffee and a breakfast that was plenty enough to serve three. She sent Jackie a quick message that she had arrived safe and sound. Fortunately the chef had already cut her pretzel in half and buttered it, since she had no idea how to do it without breaking the delicate-looking thing. The coffee was strong enough to raise the dead, and after a sip or two her restless night was forgotten. But where to now?

She could hardly walk around showing the Doctor's photo to everyone she met. This was exactly what Pete and Jake had asked her when she had told them about her plans of travelling after the Doctor. Where would she look for him? Where would he go? It had never been easy to tell what would catch the Doctor's fancy next. He was interested in anything and everything. Just across the street from the café were three major art galleries.

Well, it couldn't hurt to ask if he had bought a ticket for one of them. At least it would give her something to do until Jackie rang with news of her post.

No one in the galleries remembered selling a ticket to the Doctor. "Trust me, I would remember a man like him," a young woman, quite possibly a student at the nearby university, told her, handing her back the Doctor's picture. "He's gorgeous."

"Yeah, thanks," Rose said, disappointed despite herself.

Next, she went to the tourist information to find out if there was anything special on in the city, anything that might catch the Doctor's interest. She was given the monthly What's On magazine, and thumbed through it quickly, realising that the Doctor would have no use for this.

Rose laughed out loud. He would have no patience for the densely printed listings. Big and colourful it had to be to catch his attention.

Her mobile rang.

"Mum?"

"He's moved on to Prague," Jackie announced. "Same message as the last one."

Rose arrived in Prague in the pouring rain. The cobblestones in the historic city centre were slick, and it was hard to get her bearings in the orange glow of the darkness. Her umbrella was too small to protect her carry-all from the damp. When she arrived at the family-run hotel she had booked she collapsed on the crisp white cotton sheets of her bed, utterly exhausted. After Jackie's phone-call there had been nothing in Munich to keep her there; so she had caught the next train to Prague. She had been realistic enough not to expect to meet the Doctor in Munich, of course; still she felt a pang of disappointment when she learned that he had moved several hundred kilometres east.

All she could do was follow the Doctor. So far Torchwood hadn't been able to come up with anything new. After all, they were looking for a human being, even if this human being had an extraordinarily beautiful mind. There was nothing that set him apart from anyone else that made him instantly recognisable. Pete worked his agents with an urgency that even eclipsed the late stages of finding the Doctor just before the Earth had been plucked out of the solar system. The problem was that they could hardly ask the police forces for support since the Doctor did not really exist where they were concerned. Torchwood had planned to procure the necessary background and documents for the Doctor to lead a normal human life, with driver's licence, health insurance, tax duties, bank account and all.

But in order to set up his new identity, they had to find him first.

And the Doctor was running, making himself invisible, and like everything he did, he did this very well – even if he was probably making it up as he went.

Fresh tears made Rose's nose tickle, and other than on the train she let them run across her temples and into her hair. She was alone, not in a small compartment with a compassionate elderly lady who wouldn't leave her alone about the sadness in her eyes. Never before in her life had she felt so helpless and lonely, not even on that worst day in her life. What was she doing here, looking for someone in the crowds that populated the narrow streets of this old city? It seemed ludicrous, but at least running after the Doctor gave her something to do. She had been running after him for so long now, she might as well run for a little while longer. At least now she did not have to cross realities.

That all became unimportant, however, when she thought of the day-to-day practicalities of life. He had hardly spoken that Saturday, and the secret of his travels had always been talk.

A terrible thought crept up on her. What if he had run from her, what if his inability to talk with her was really unwillingness, a consequence of her behaviour on Bad Wolf Bay?

"No!" she choked. He could be severe in his punishments, she had witnessed this side of his often enough, but he would never be this cruel. Not to her. Not when he sent her love letters.

Rose fell asleep without dinner, in her damp clothes, too exhausted even to clean up her blotchy face. She burrowed deep into the soft, silken duvet and pillows, feeling the luxurious fabric caressing her skin as she stretched and turned. Turned into the arms of the Doctor whose long legs quickly accommodated hers as she settled her back against his chest. She felt his lips nuzzle that spot where neck and shoulders met, felt his lips travel along her shoulder to kiss the mole that sat at the top her arm. The Doctor's caresses were languid and often barely more than a whisper on her skin. Rose purred in comfort.

When she turned again, the rain was still pelting against the window, illuminated from the yellow light of the street lamp. She shivered, and eventually it registered with her that she was alone in the bed. Somehow in this state between waking and dreaming she managed to shimmy out of her clothes and draw the simple duvet over herself.

She must have dozed off quickly and easily again, this time sleeping without her mind's cruel tricks. When she woke again, the friendly room was bathed in the indifferent light of yet another rainy day.

Rose sat up with a start. She grabbed her mobile and checked the time. Half past eight. She allowed her arms to give and flopped back onto the mattress. Now what? She stared at the ceiling, trying not to remember the reality of the dream she had had. That kind of dream was nothing new to her, but she feared that its powerful embrace would not let her go without a fight if she allowed her mind to dwell on it.

Before she went down to breakfast, she called Jackie. Of course, there was no news. "Well, I guess no news is good news," Rose said before she rang off. Still, she felt defeated.

Coffee. She needed coffee before she was able to think clearly or even make any plans. She found a small table tucked away into a niche in the covered courtyard of the hotel. The sound of the raindrops on the glass construction echoed through the high room and Rose felt as though she were sitting in a tent.

"Room 204," she told the waiter who came to her table, cleared away the second cover, and took her order. When he brought her a pot of coffee, it came with a Prague postcard. Rose thought it was a complimentary thing the hotel did, but when she turned it over to read the description of the photo, her breath caught. The Doctor had written her name – his hand was becoming more practised – and the message. The name of her hotel and room number had been added in a different pen and hand.

How had he done that? How had he managed to have this card delivered to her? There was no stamp on it, the picture was of Prague. It had not been sent in the post.

Yesterday's ugly idea returned.

The waiter returned with the rest of her breakfast.

"How did this get here?" Rose asked, her tone sharper than she had intended. She tried to amend it with a smile.

"Is special service of Prague hotels," the waiter explained. "You can leave message for guest who comes after you. And we bring to you." He smiled. "Is nice message, yes?" he added quietly, indicating the postcard in Rose's hand. "Sorry, is short message, big words." Well, at least he had the decency to admit he shouldn't have read the line.

"Yes," Rose said. A small smile tested her lips. Maybe she should be paying more attention to what the Doctor was trying to tell her rather than suspecting the worst of him. This card, too, read: Rose, I love you. In the Doctor's new, big handwriting.

The young man had just left with yet another apologetic smile, when it occurred to Rose that the Doctor had indeed told her more than just that he loved her. Not that that wasn't enough. But this postcard could tell her where he had stayed. And when.

Rose hastily wolfed down half a roll with jam, washed it down with the coffee – This is actually quite good! She thought as she put the cup down – and hurried to the reception desk.

The concierge was an elderly man with a kind smile and a pair of square spectacles riding low on the back of his nose. "What can I do for you, miss?"

"I got this postcard from another guest here in Prague," she explained. "And I was wondering if you could tell me where this guest stays. I'd like to get in touch with him," she added. The concierge needn't know that chances were the Doctor had already left the city for God knows where.

"So you know the sender?"

Rose leaned across the counter conspiratorially. "He loves me."

Three little words. And he was even willing to write them down. Commit them to paper memory.

Rose smiled.

"I see," the concierge replied with a good-natured grin. "Let me see." He went through some papers on his desk, and eventually passed her a slip of paper. It held the name and address of a local hotel, and a name.

"Thank you so much," Rose said.

"Is special service for guests in Prague. So they can find other persons," the concierge said.

The hotel where the Doctor had stayed – Rose didn't dare use the present tense – was on the other side of the old town. Opening her small umbrella, she stepped out into the rain. She almost didn't recognise the street. It looked completely different in the daylight, more inviting and full of stories. But, Rose supposed, it also had to do with the fact that for the first time since this madness had started she had something to go by. It was hard not to get her hopes up too high. She wasn't sure if she could bear another disappointment.

Why had the Doctor left her this message, then, if it wasn't about wanting to be found?

She had no time to lose, and so she hurried through the cobbled streets, checking her map from time to time to make sure she didn't get lost. And then she had found the address the concierge had given her.

This, too, was a small, family-run hotel, and while its facade could do with some plaster and paint, its interior had been renovated, and only recently. The state-of-the art furniture and decorations were an interesting contrast to the vault she had stepped down into from the street.

A young man and a middle-aged woman were behind the reception desk, probably mother and son if their likeness was anything to go by. As Rose went towards them, the young man looked up to her. A flash of recognition lit his face.

Rose slowed down. She had never seen this young man, so how did he recognise her?

"Rose Tyler?" he offered.

Rose nodded warily.

The young man spoke in rapid Czech to the woman, whose curious face lit up when he had finished. She positively beamed at Rose.

"Please," the young man said, "come with me. Can I offer you something to drink?" He was stepping around the desk, relieving her of the dripping mess that was her umbrella, and gestured for her to go through a glass door.

Rose asked for tea this time, and sat in one of the stylish but utterly comfortable armchairs of the hotel bar. The man followed her with a folder and joined her at the small table.

"My name is Jakub. I run this hotel together with my mother," he offered in fluent, charmingly accented English. As if on cue, his mother arrived with the tea. She said something to her son, then disappeared again.

"This will explain why we recognised you," he said, handig her the folder.

"What is this?" Rose accepted the folder, but hesitated to open it. She reached into her shoulder bag and produced the postacrd she had received that morning.

"Did you pass this on?" she asked.

"Yes," Jakub said. "It's a new service we offer. Local hotels have established a network, and a few of us younger hoteliers have introduced this message service. It is confidential, naturally."

"Naturally," Rose repeated, mellowing a little. She chided herself for this uncharacteristic paranoia. And suddenly, she realised. "He's not here anymore. In Prague?"

Jakub shook his head. "No, I'm afraid not. He left the day before yesterday."

Rose refused herself the deep breath her body wanted her to take. "Do you know where he was off to?"

"I bought a train ticket for him." He hesitated. "For Vienna."

Rose was about to rise, but Jakub touched her arm lightly. "Please. Hear me out."

She nodded, settling back, sipping her tea. It was still very hot, but she needed something to occupy her hands, her busy body that wanted to run again, after the Doctor, with the Doctor. Eventually, she managed to tell Jakub that she would listen. He let go of her arm.

"Open the folder." He gestured at it.

Rose removed the elastic bands that held the folder shut, and opened the flap. Her eyes met her own in the picture that revealed itself. The likeness was amazing even if the picture itself was not quite finished. A bit of her left jaw was missing, and her neck ended in the white nothingness of the paper. The eyes held so much life, sadness and incredulity. A touch of disappointment, too. Rose felt as though she were looking into a mirror that showed the past.

This was exactly what she had felt on Bad Wolf Bay.

The bottom right corner was filled with alien script, flowing more elegantly than Arabic, with curved tails and upstrokes, accentuated by swirls and characters that looked like diacritics.

"He drew that," Rose said, ashamed about the flattering and faithful portrait.

"He was sitting over there," Jakub pointed at a table on the far side of the room. "There was so much sadness in him. But love, too," he hastened to add. "So much love."

Rose felt the tears rising, but she knew there was nothing she could do about them. "Then why has he left me? Why is he running?" Her fingers ghosted carefully over what he had written in graphite, unable to read it.

He had used a language and a script she didn't know. It could be her name, there, and his, and the date. It could be a curse or a blessing. It could be anything, really. And for the first time Rose could relate to him, understood what it must feel like, being trapped in this world, unable to understand anything.

Anything but a couple of expressions.

It would have kept her close to someone who could help her. On their journeys together, the TARDIS had done this job for him – for them – and here ... she would gladly have done that for him. That, and teach him everything about it.

"That's what we've been wondering," Jakub said, drawing her back to the present.

Rose wiped the tears off her cheeks. "And?"

"Why did he draw you like this?" Again, he gestured for the folder.

How could she possibly explain to him about Time Lords and metacrises and genocide? About the guilt and the fire and the rage? "It's complicated. I ..." she began, then faltered. Another wave of shame washed over her, its bitterness overwhelming her so that she almost couldn't breathe. "He made a choice, and I didn't support him. He trusts me with his life, and I ... I ..."

Jakub touched her arm again, but didn't say anything for a while. "What's his name, anyway?"

Through her tears, Rose spluttered, laughing. "I don't know. Everyone just calls him the Doctor. He never tells anyone his real name. Why, didn't he sign his name into your register? Don't you need to see some papers?"

"A man like him isn't called John Smith," was all Jakub offered.

Rose looked at him. "No, I guess not." She had never really thought about it, well, not more than that she found it a bit commonplace, but then the Doctor preferred it that way. Keep his head low in his own way, enough to be noticed and charm people into doing things for him, but not enough to stick out as someone remarkable in most people's memories.

"Look," Jakub bent forward, bracing his elbows on his black-clad knees, "we had the impression he wanted to be with you very much. That he missed you. And we're glad that you came, we really are."

There was always a but in that kind of tone.

"But I don't think he wants you to follow him. Not anymore, that is," he continued. "Whatever it is that lead him here – it has nothing to do with you." He reached into the inside breast pocket of his jacket and produced another postcard which he held out for Rose.

Rose took it and turned it over to read the message: I love you, Rose. There was an x, and underneath that more Gallifreyan script, like a signature.

He had signed his name. She could not read it any more than she could pronounce it, but it was there. His real name.

Rose realised that with this gesture, he had made her the greatest gift he could possibly give her. He had given her all that he was, all that he had. And that was the Doctor. It was something the Doctor in her old universe would never have been able to give her.

"Go home, Miss Tyler," Jakub said. "He will find you in his own time."

And go home was what Rose did. There was no point in following him across the continent without ever having the slightest chance of catching up with him. He had become an invisible man, and his lack of communication with anyone beyond the absolute necessities made it impossible to track him. Even for Torchwood.

Jackie and Tony were there to pick Rose up at St Pancras. She swept her little brother up in a crushing embrace, and he showered her with wet little-boy kisses. Afterwards he refused to sit in his buggy, so Rose settled his weight on her hip, glad for the feeling of being useful and needed that his arms around her conveyed her. She kissed his chubby cheek.

"Here, these arrived today," Jackie said after she had had a chance to welcome her daughter back. There were two postcards, one from Vienna, where the Doctor had gone after Prague, and from there he had moved on to Florence.

"I'd so like to be with him," Rose sighed as she studied the pictures. Both messages of love were signed in Gallifreyan.

"I know, sweetheart," Jackie said softly. "I wish you could. And I certainly hope he would like that, too."

"Thanks, mum."

"But I think it's better that you're here now," Jackie added. "You see, so he knows it's you who gets the postcards."

Rose stopped, and turned at Jackie. "How did he know I went to Prague in the first place? Why haven't I thought of this before?"

"He knows you, Rose," Jackie offered eventually. It was the only explanation, for who had possibly had the chance to tell him where she was? And hadn't her daughter tried anything in her power to find him before?

The card from Florence turned out to be the last to arrive.

-:-

He stood in front of the letter box, postcard in hand. His fingers ghosted lovingly over the words he had written, in both Latin and Gallifreyan letters.

His Latin letters came more freely now, more willingly, at least the words in the messages for Rose and his human name did. These words were about the only ones he could write. A woman in Paris had printed the words for him, and he had copied them out as best he could, into the notebook he had found in Rose's study, with a pencil he had also found there. The angular letters came reluctantly at first, and had caused his right hand to cramp with the awkward movements. Seven pages he had filled in the notebook with the words. Then he had picked up an empty postcard a tourist had forgotten on the marble table in a small Paris café. He had laboriously copied Rose's address from a letter he had found on the table in her hall and pocketed that Sunday morning. Then he added his well-practised Latin letters. He had been about to post the card when a little boy had caught his wrist. With some gestures the boy had tried – eventually successfully – to explain that the postcard needed a stamp. Of course. How could he have forgotten about it. Before he had been able to go and find a stamp, the boy was offering him one. He had had to thank the boy in Gallifreyan, but if he hadn't understood the words, then he had the gratefulness in his voice.

Chagrined, he slipped the postcard into the letter box. There were so many things he wanted to share with Rose. Travelling without her somehow did not feel right, and yet staying with her hadn't either. Something was wrong about this, and until he could find out what this was, he felt compelled to move around to find it, to travel. Until he had found whatever it was that he was looking for, postcards would have to do. He couldn't be sure if Rose had stopped following him. He knew he would never stop if it were her running away from him – just like he would have done anything to get her back from Pete's World.

He reached into the pocket of his trousers and produced the coral the Other had given him. The coral was a piece of his beloved TARDIS, and it was warm in his palm, and when he closed his eyes and willed his human heart to calm he could feel the Earth moving. He wondered if this sensation was anything like the one Rose had had when he had held her hand to show her.

Lost in thought, he played with the golden piece of coral, rolled it around his palm and through his fingers, basked in its warmth and the rough, porous texture. From this small piece, he could grow another TARDIS, even with the comparatively crude technology of the 21st century. Torchwood would be of help. He would have to work with them, that much he realised.

He slipped this most precious possession back into the pocket of his trousers, where it was safe, where he could feel it press into his thigh, reassuring him. He picked up the overnight bag that held the rest of his possessions, and moved into the shade of the loggia. The place was teeming with tourists from all over the world, and he was lucky to find a place to sit and rest when a sunburnt couple left to see if it was their time yet to enter the Uffizi. He smiled softly to himself as he remembered the day he had visited Leonardo working on La Gioconda. In the Other's World, you would have to go to Paris to see what was probably the most famous work of art in the world. In Pete's World, the diminutive painting was to be found here, where it belonged.

He took a sip from his water bottle. The water from certain public fountains was clean enough to drink, and so he followed the Florentines' example and refilled his plastic bottle whenever necessary. That way, he could get by without spending too much of what little money he had left. He had been lucky once, when he had found a wallet in Munich. It had held notes only, there had been no way of finding its owner. And another time he had calculated wisely and won the jackpot in a slot machine. He had had enough money to stay in reasonably comfortable places, to buy something to eat – even when he lacked the appetite most of the time, he knew enough about human bodies to give his what it needed – and other things that until then he had never needed to think about, thanks to his TARDIS. A sponge bag, for example, and its contents. Clothes. A sketch-pad.

Glasses.

He had got a pair of those at a supermarket. Of course he knew that there were specialist shops for custom-made glasses, but he had no hope of telling the clerks what he needed. So the cheap version had to do. He had, however, spent a little more on a nice pair of sunglasses. They were perfect for hiding, and that, after all, was what he was trying to do.

What from, he had no idea. It was just like he had no idea why it was wrong to be or not to be with Rose.

Just as he was about to take another sip from the warm water in his bottle, he froze. The way one of the people in the crowd around him was moving caught his eye. Something about her – it was a woman, he noticed – was very familiar. He recognised the body-language, and told himself it couldn't be, it was impossible. Until the woman took off her wide strawhat, and the sun caught in her long, ginger hair.

The Doctor blinked, and took off his sunglasses. When he looked again, the woman was gone, had become one with the crowd again.

He stood on the step he had been sitting on, but despite this and his height, he had no chance of finding her again.

"Nah," he said, putting his glasses on again, sitting down on the cool stone. Muttering "It can't be" in Gallifreyan.

Why, though, can't it? he wondered. This world was home to a Pete Tyler, and even Mick-Mickeyty-Mickey had had an alternate version over here. So why shouldn't there be a Pete's World version of Donna?

"Donna."

She had been brilliant, in her own, special way. And something tugged at his single heart at the thought of what had become of her in the Other's World. The metacrisis had been mutual. A human Donna with a Doctor mind. A DoctorDonna, just like the Ood had predicted. There was no doubt about what the Other had had to do to save her. And he would have done the same.

His nose went ticklish again, and he knew what that meant. Tears came so much easier to his human self, and for the first time it occurred to him that maybe, this was a bit of Donna's personality that lingered in the margins of his mind.

The Doctor smiled, and lifted his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Thank you, Donna," he said under his breath, in Gallifreyan.

"You mean he drew that?" Jackie asked. They were sitting in the window seat of Rose's room at the Mansion. With one hand, Jackie was balancing a mug of tea on her knee, in the other she held the pencil portrait the Doctor had made of her daughter. The likeness was amazing, as was the expression in her eyes; even the quirky line around her mouth that didn't show yet, but would in the years to come, was there. "From memory?" she added.

Rose nodded, pressing the back of her thumb to her lips.

"What're those squiggles, anyway?" she asked, attempting to hide her amazement behind the annoyed tone of someone who doesn't understand something.

"Tha's Gallifreyan, I s'pose," Rose mumbled, slipping into the safety of her childhood.

"Well what does it say?" Jackie had never been a woman to conceal her impatience.

"Dunno," Rose replied, now biting the back of her thumb. She leaned back in her seat, picking up her mug where it sat on the windowsill. All the more surprising was how gently and carefully Jackie put the portrait on the floor by her feet.

Jackie still couldn't quite believe that Rose had returned so early, that she had given up her search for the man she loved. "You do love him, though, don't you?"

Rose looked at her most intently. "'course I do." She might as well have been asked if she loved her brother.

"Then you just let him be?"

"If tha's what he wants, yeah," Rose replied, sipping her tea. "Isn't that what love's about, sometimes?"

"Even if ... you know ... ?"

"Even then. He's the Doctor."

"What about the one who left with Donna?" Jackie asked softly.

Rose sighed. The man who left with Donna was more like her first Doctor than the man who had stayed behind with her. She realised that now. Even if the One Who Left had made a choice for them – it had been for the better, too, Rose knew she wouldn't have been able to make a decision there and then – even if she had been angry then, she now saw the wisdom behind it. And felt ashamed at her reaction of disappointment. She should have told the Doctor that of course she wanted him, and what a silly question that was.

But there was no going back now.

"You said it," Rose replied, studying the dregs of her tea on the bottom of her mug, "he's the One Who Left."

"That poor thing, though," Jackie mused. "D'you reckon he's on his own again?"

Rose looked up. "No idea. It's all up to Donna, I s'pose."

"The world won't be enough for her, I reckon," Jackie said. "What with that meta-business an'all."

"Yeah," Rose nodded. Lost in thought. And she wondered if Donna was all right. When she had looked into the heart of the TARDIS the Doctor had to take that experience away from her. Too overwhelming it had been for her tiny human mind. What it was like to share a Time Lord's mind Rose could only guess, but chances were that that wasn't any more salubrious to a human's tiny mind. So the Doctor would sooner or later have to take these powers away from Donna. She didn't dare think of what the consequences of something like that would be for the Doctor. When he had taken the soul of the TARDIS from her, he had died for her. Had given one of his lives to save hers. There was no doubt the Doctor would do the same for Donna, particularly not with Davros' accusations still ringing painfully in his ears.

She looked at Jackie, wondering just for a second if she needed to know, and decided that she didn't. The whole story had been demanding enough, and being the mother she was, Jackie would fuss over the One Who Left. A lot. Not that he didn't deserve it. But what good would it do anyone? If he could make choices, well, so could she. And her life was complicated enough at the moment as it was.

She had the Doctor to take care of. "He isn't you." These were the words that were still ringing in her ears. And right they were, only she hadn't realised until now that they did not only contain accusations, shortcomings – being half-human. A whole new world could be discovered in these three little worlds. And Rose was ready to travel this world.

-:-

He decided to stay in Florence another night.

How easy the decision has been, he was wondering as he walked down the comparatively wide street that connected the Duomo and the Uffizi. He had treated himself to some gelato, home-made ice-cream that had cost a fortune but tasted oh so deliciously and tickled his sensitive taste buds most pleasantly. As he licked some of the soft ice-cream from his lips he was amazed to find how quickly he had got used to his human body's higher temperature. His tongue was cold against his lips, and he briefly wondered if that what was Rose had noticed when she had kissed him – well, when Cassandra had forced her to kiss him.

He decided that that kiss didn't count. And when he had kissed her on Bad Wolf Bay, he had done so with his human lips. He scooped up some more of the delicious banana ice-cream with his tongue and savoured its texture and taste. He smiled.

The street was crawling with people, chattering away in all kinds of languages, marvelling at everything around them or just focused on each other or occupied with the lenses of their cameras. Or with him. The Doctor could feel the eyes of not only one woman – and the occasional man – rest on him. So he hadn't lost that particular sense. Then again, if he believed Rose, it was a sense humans had, too, well, not recognised and acknowledged as such, not more than a sensation, really. But it was there.

After he had found himself a nice little inexpensive hotel on the outskirts of the city, he decided to go out for an evening stroll. When he had opened the window and shutters of his simple room, he had felt the gentle evening breeze fill the room, carrying with it the clean scent of river water. The heat of the day was gone, and it was getting more comfortable outside, even as the daylight quickly faded in the valley the city ducked into. Already, the lines of the surrounding hills were black and disappeared into the hazy evening sky.

He took a deep breath, and a not uncomfortable light-headedness took hold of his body. He enjoyed the momentary feeling of weightlessness before he made to cross the narrow street. Other than the street in the city centre, this was covered in tarmac rather than the largish slabs of stone that had been polished by millions of feet shuffling across them. The street was radiating the warmth it had absorbed during the day.

The Doctor took a step forward.

And the next thing he knew he was all fire and pain and it was hard to breathe. And his overwhelmed senses took their own sweet time to allow his mind to register what was going on. He could feel the rough surface of the warm tarmac against his skin, its unforgiving hardness, and there was a blinding light and a shadow that fell between the source of the light and his line of vision – blurry it was, as though he wer trying to examine something closely without his glasses – and he wanted to make sure the TARDIS coral was still in the pocket of his trousers, and then ...

"Donna." He heard his own voice; it sounded raspy, bubbly, gurgling in his throat. "Donna." He attempted a smile as she bent over him, her blue eyes scared and wide.

"Molto bene."

And then the darkness came.

Donna Mullen had travelled to Florence for lessons in Italian. Mark and Wilfred had given her this for Christmas. She had always loved the language, but had never found the time to brush up on what she had learned at school. Life had demanded a fair amount of her time and energy, and so it took nearly two decades and the combined forces of her husband and her grandfather to realise this project. The senior consultant had only been too happy to give her three weeks off, since she never went on holiday or called in sick.

It turned out, however, that she had not chosen a good point in time to take this well-deserved holiday. While Mark and Sam were at home in London, enjoying some quality father-son time, and she was taking her Italian lessons, the Earth was stolen. Donna's plan had been to return to her family immediately, but international travel had been restricted during this time of crisis, and so she had been lucky to be able to make a phone call before the communications system blew.

To say that she had been worried sick about her family was quite an understatement. She had been more worried about their safety than her own – not without reason, for Florence was a safer place that Saturday than London. When it had been over, there had been nothing she had wanted more than return home, but traffic was chaotic, and Mark told her over the phone that their place was a mess and that he didn't want her to return until he'd had the chance to clean everything up.

"But you're all right, aren't you?" Donna asked for the umpteenth time.

"Yes, don't you worry about us, sweetie," Mark said in his most reassuring of tones. Donna knew the tone, and she could trust it. Yet, it was difficult to bite back the tears. Since then, she had checked in with her husband and son daily. "Really, mum," Sam had said at one point.

And now that she was beginning to recover from the shock, this skinny man had stepped into her life, quite literally. One minute was standing on the pavement, the next – when she was passing by in her little rental car – he stepped into the street. She had had no chance whatsoever to prevent the accident from happening, even the police said that, particularly what with the lighting conditions of early dusk.

This did nothing, of course, for her peace of mind. She had functioned efficiently after it had happened, her training kicking in. But now that she was sitting in the relatives' room in one of the uncomfortable orange plastic chairs it seemed as though the whole world came crashing down on her – again.

Doctor Donna Mullen was reduced to tears. She did not normally lose her self-control like this, but Donna found comfort in her private sobbing.

"_Signora_?" A soft voice woke her, holding out a box of tissues for her to clean up. Donna accepted it gratefully and recognised the doctor from the casualty ward who had treated the skinny man. She could not remember his name.

The doctor sat down beside her. "My English is not good, but I try," he said in his gorgeous Italian accent. When Donna offered to speak Italian he brushed her off, telling her he needed to practise.

"I'm a doctor myself," Donna offered. "My name's Donna."

"Ah, you treated him good, _Dottoressa_" the doctor said. "_Sono_ Giorgio. We need informations about the man."

"I ... I don't know him," Donna replied.

"But he called you Donna, no?" Giorgio asked.

"Yes," Donna said. "Yes, he did. But I never told him my name. I just took care of him right after ..." She dabbed at her eyes again. She really had no idea who this skinny man was. This skinny, gorgeous man. And he had whispered her name, again and again. He even had attempted a pain-filled smile, and he had said something in Italian. _Molto_ _bene_. Donna, _molto_ _bene_. As though he had recognised her. But Donna had no idea where or what from.

"Oh." Giorgio was at a loss. Clearly, he had come to her for more information, but she couldn't give him any. "This is difficult, _perchè_ we cannot find his name, address. Nothing."

"Oh, right," Donna said slowly.

"We have only this." From his coat pocket he produced a golden stone the size of a litchi.

I hate litchis, Donna thought. "What is that?" She took the stone from his palm.

"We do not know." He sounded chagrined. He had really hoped she could be of help to him. The stone was too light for a common stone, Donna thought, very rough, too, and warm, even. Too warm to be coming from a coat pocket. "I have never seen anything like it before." She returned the thing to Giorgio.

"How is he?" she finally managed to ask, having put it off for far too long. It had been hard to tell how severe his internal injuries were, all she had been able to find was a possible concussion, and that he had broken his left leg, as he fell off the bonnet.

"His left leg is very bad. He needs an operation. But he was fortunate, only a concussion and some bruises," Giorgio said.

"How bad is his leg?"

Giorgio didn't answer. Donna paled. "What have I done?" she whispered.

"Is probably best to go home," Giorgio suggested.

Donna looked at him, scandalised. "No way. I'll stay here until he's out of surgery."

Seeing that Donna couldn't be dissuaded, Giorgio squeezed her hand, and – having given her directions for the cafeteria, and reassured her countless times that he would let her know when she could see the patient – he excused himself.

Donna could hardly believe that this stranger was apparently all on his own, with no family or other people to contact. With no one to be there for him. That was one of the hardest bits about her job, having to see patients who had to deal with whatever it was that ailed them on their own. This and her bad conscience made her wait at the hospital.

She must have dozed off in her chair, for it was a gentle touch at her shoulder that woke her. Disoriented, she squinted in the harsh light of the relatives' room. Slowly, Giorgio's face swam into focus. "You can see him now, if you want."

"Is he okay?" Donna asked.

"Yes."

"_Molto_ _bene_," Donna murmured, standing to follow the nurse Giorgio had asked to take her to the patient. As she passed the doctor, he gave her the litchi-stone. "You take care of this, yes? I cannot." Donna nodded, and absentmindedly dropped the stone into her enormous handbag.

Donna hesitated at the foot of the stranger's bed. His eyes were closed, but she couldn't tell if he was asleep or withdrawn, his floppy brown hair and the beginnings of a stubble standing out starkly against his pale skin. A soft bleeping monitored his pulse, and his left leg was prickly with an external fixator. Apart from a few minor cuts and bruises he looked unharmed, and Donna felt a wave of relative relief wash through her. Granted, the leg would take time to heal, and he was going to have to undergo lengthy physiotherapy, but other than that he appeared to have been lucky.

She stepped around the bed, drawing up a chair. After a beat or so, she took his right hand. His eyes fluttered open, and he slowly turned his head. The stranger looked at her with glassy, the most wonderful chocolate-coloured eyes. Donna had a sinking feeling at his intense gaze, and she dropped her eyes to where his hand lay in hers. She gave his fingers a gentle squeeze.

"Donna." His voice was almost inaudible.

She looked up, and found him smiling.

"Yes," she swallowed. "How do you know my name?" She had reverted to her native English–

"Donna."

–but how could she be sure he understood her at all, when all he said was her name? And how did he know her?

"Shush," she whispered. "You sleep now. I'll be back in the morning." She repeated herself in Italian, but the man did not seem to understand her.

"Donna?" He had trouble keeping his eyes open.

Donna stood. "Good night." And left when he didn't reply.

When Donna visited him the next morning, just as she had promised, he said nothing, not even her name. There was, however, a brief flicker of recognition in his eyes when she sat down beside him, but he didn't even smile. The nurse, who had just finished whatever she had been doing when Donna entered, told her in Italian that he hadn't said a single word. "Which is a pity, because we can't give him anything for the pain. Or learn his name."

Donna nodded, and turned to him, grabbing his hand. She waited for the nurse to leave before she said: "I am so sorry for what happened. I wish ... no," she took a deep breath. "There's no excuse. I didn't see you when I should have."

He held her gaze for a second or so, but Donna wasn't sure what to make of the confusing mixture of expressions in them.

"Do you understand me?" she wanted to know in English. When he didn't react, she repeated the question in Italian.

Nothing.

"Sprechen Sie Deutsch?"

Nothing.

"That's about it. I don't speak any other languages," Donna sighed. "Not that we would have had any chance with my German in the first place. So, I'll stick to English then." She drew in a deep breath, then touched her chest. "Donna." She gestured at his chest, looking at him expectantly. He let his eyes drift to his chest, but didn't offer a reply.

Donna's eyes narrowed shrewdly. So he was following her. For a moment she had suspected that there was more to his concussion, but this was obviously not the case. But what was it then?

"Look, we do have to give you a name. It's rather inconvenient to refer to you with pronouns only. So, John." She pretended to be chattering away, but from the corner of her eye she could see his eyes flash, but she let the moment pass without letting him know she'd noticed.

John, he was.

Indeed.

Donna visited him every day without fail for the next couple of days, during lunchtime – to shove the fork into his hand – and in the early evening to do exactly that again. He had no idea if he liked what they were feeding him, and he didn't care much, but he might as well eat. His head was nothing but a dull throb, but it was nothing compared to the fire that was raging in his left leg. The tears it drove into his eyes did not make it any better. But he refused the painkillers they wanted to give him; in a way the pain was good and his fingers could always clench the sheets.

Donna talked, of course, but not quite as much as the memory in one corner of his mind suggested. She was probably speaking English—she sounded different when she spoke to the nurses and the young doctor. He didn't care much. Yet she sounded the same, so full of life and bubbly, and sometimes sarcastic. Like his Donna. Or rather, like the Donna he remembered. Sometimes she sounded calm, almost as if she had carefully rehearsed her words, and there was a silent undertone that accompanied all her words. That was something new. She showed him pictures of three generations of men; one of them looked like Wilfred; the other two were quite possibly her husband and son. He couldn't tell, without his glasses everything looked rather blurry. Pride and love made her eyes shine, and he found he was glad.

Donna seemed to have a good life, a much better life than the Donna he had left behind with the Other One. He would take all her memories of their time together from her. A metacrisis could not simply be kissed away. Taking away her memories meant killing a part of her, dropping her back into her old life. Leaving him alone. And lonely. It meant killing the woman he had come to love like a sister.

Donna brought things, like underwear and t-shirts, and a new sponge bag, and fruit, but none of the things he had bought himself. Not the notebook. Nor the TARDIS coral.

Donna called him John. Clever as she was, she had finagled this name out of him. But he didn't care much. She stopped coming after a week or so.

The day after her last visit, they made him get up and put some weight on his bad leg. He remembered howling with pain, it had been almost as bad as submitting himself to the Chameleon Arch. After that, they made him repeat this procedure every day, and still he refused the comfort of painkillers. And two weeks after her last visit, the frame in which his leg had been trapped was removed and replaced by a stiff case of plaster. The spot where the bone had broken through the pale skin of his leg had healed, leaving behind a red crescent.

The dull ache in his head had eventually disappeared, too, leaving behind nightmares to nest in the dark recesses of his mind. They filled his sleep—a concept he still had to get used to, he'd never slept much as a full Time Lord, partly because it meant asking for nightmares. Most times, one of the nurses would rescue him from the burning plains of Gallifrey, skies filled with Daleks, Jackie's screams as she was being cyberised, Astrid as she fell, Reinette being taken to Paris in a hearse, and Rose. Rose being torn into Pete's World, Rose asleep in her bed as he bent to kiss her good-bye, a wad of money in his hand.

Donna rang off, putting the phone down slowly and thoughtfully on the counter. Mark stopped stirring his curry, wiped his hands on a towel and drew his wife into an embrace. He kissed the top of her head. "Any news?"

Donna withdrew and shook her head. "Nothing. They've found nothing. Can you believe that?"

"And how is your Italian patient doing?"

"He still doesn't speak, he refuses his medication, but he willingly does anything they put him through in physio. Pecks at his food."

Mark returned to his curry, adding some more of the chopped vegetables. It had been a shock when Donna had called to tell him what had happened. And he was at a loss of how he could help her coping with the events. There was nothing he could do to really take away the guilt that was tormenting her. Guilt for an accident she had had no way of preventing. There was only one thing he could offer.

"Do you want to go back? Check on him?" he blurted.

Donna always asked Giorgio to say hello to John for her, and she was sure he did pass the message on, but there was never an answer. Giorgio had once hinted at the fact that John might not be exactly the brightest of men, that the injury to his brain had been worse than could be assessed or that his hearing was impaired. Donna didn't think so for some reason. She insisted that there was more to John, and that it wasn't what everybody was thinking. It certainly was a mystery that the man was apparently not missed by anyone; not by family, friends or his employer.

Relief washed over Donna's pale face. He had obviously, finally found the right words to make her feel better. "Yes, I would love that."

Mark smiled.

When she called her hospital, it turned out that she would have to wait at least a fortnight until she could leave, because some of the doctors could only go abroad during the school holidays. "That's alright," she bravely told Mark, busying herself with the plates. "I can wait."

Donna had left, but her name still echoed in his room. The young doctor or the nurses would mention it, looking at him insistently as though willing a reaction from him. But Donna was gone. He would never forget her name, there was no need for them to keep going on about her. Didn't they realise that? But he didn't care much. He looked blankly at them. He did not understand, and he did not want to. They would not understand him if he talked to them. He did everything else they wanted – they poked him with needles and he underwent the torture that was physiotherapy, he ate when they pushed the fork into his hand. Why couldn't they just leave him be? He did not want to harm anyone.

But one day everything changed.

It was bound to happen, he knew that. Something always happened to change the things as they were, he would be a right fool if he did not realise that. He had learned this lesson, time and again. The painful way, too, in most cases.

The nurse came in, the slim one with the dark cherry hair, a bubbly laugh always in her wake, and she brought a letter. It came in an envelope with a single word written on it – quite possibly _John_. She held the letter out for him, and after a heartbeat he accepted the letter, and nodded his thanks. She left.

The letter was shaking in his hand, which was because his hand was shaking. And his single, lonely heart was beating so fast not even his hand above it could calm it down. Was this a letter from Rose? Had she found him? Why hadn't she come herself? Why would she write _John_ on the envelope? Or did the characters spell _Doctor_?

He squinted hard at the word, and it swam into clearer focus. Still, it made no sense. He had never learned to read Latin script. All he knew was Rose's address because he had copied it faithfully from a letter he had stolen – which other than _I love you_ he had not learned to write by heart.

He turned the letter over, but nothing was written on it. There was just the flap that closed the envelope. He flipped the letter over again, but it remained silent. He gripped the creamy paper hard, feeling the muscles in his jaw clench as he fought the tickle in his nose.

He only looked up when a small hand covered his and gently but insistently pulled the crumpled envelope from his fist. A little girl had silently appeared by his side. She was not more than twelve years old, with dark hair and eyes the colour of dark chocolate. She was in her pyjamas, and she was propped against the edge of his bed. A pair of crutches were leaning against his bedside table.

She looked at him with a compassionate smile and encouraged by his surprise, reached up with her free hand and touched his cheek. To wipe away the tears he hadn't noticed. She said something, something he of course didn't understand, but it didn't matter. It was the sound of her voice that was more important now than anything, her calm, comforting, compassionate voice.

He drew the girl into a hug, lifting her off her feet and pulling her up to sit on the edge of his bed.

He probably shouldn't be doing this, but it felt good. He let go of her.

She made to return the letter to him, but he refused her.

"John?" she asked, having glanced at the envelope.

The Doctor nodded.

She touched her chest. "Chiara."

He repeated her name.

Chiara said something, very fast. It was probably Italian.

The Doctor shook his head, smiling.

Chiara looked crestfallen. She made herself, however, comfortable by his side, and he could see that her left ankle was in a cast. Having smoothed the crumpled letter, she turned it over and made to tear it open.

Oh.

She wanted to read the letter to him.

"Oh sweetheart, I'm not going to understand a word of what you'll read," he said in his own tongue.

She looked at him wide-eyed. Gallifreyan did this to people. It supposedly was a very musical language. "But thank you anyway."

Chiara stretched to kiss his cheek, then carefully slid off his bed and hobbled out of his room on her crutches. She was halfway out the door when he called her name. She turned around, and he mimicked writing something. Chiara nodded, and continued on her way.

She returned with a bag around her neck, which turned out to contain a notebook and pencil case. Chiara sat on the edge of his bed again, and laid the stationery out for him on the table he usually ate from. The Doctor hesitated briefly before he chose a pencil and wrote Rose's name at the top of an empty page. He pointed at the crumpled letter.

This time, he let Chiara open the letter. She was a clever girl, for her eyes swept straight to the ending. "Donna," she read. And looked at him askance. Was it bad that the letter came from Donna? Who was Donna anyway? And Rose? Why would you rather the letter be from Rose?

The Doctor swallowed, then nodded. Donna had not forgotten him. At least not the Donna on this Earth.

But he wanted Rose.

Chiara said something to him. He barely registered her gesturing at the letter, probably asking if she should read him the letter after all, but he shook his head. He didn't care.

And then he was alone again.


	2. Part 2 Chapters 7, Part 2 to 11

Part 2

Part 2

Chapters 7 (Part 2) - 11

Rose was sitting in the chair by her desk, but she was not looking at the map of postcards that she had arranged on her desk. She was looking at the Doctor's bed, which had sat untouched since that Sunday morning five weeks ago. She had made it, so it would be ready for him when he returned. If he returned.

For quite a while she had refused to use the conditional. But ever since this last postcard had arrived from Florence, and nothing thereafter, refusing had become harder and harder. She had been angry at first, and disappointed. No postcards meant no words of love. Had he stopped loving her? Had she changed too much in the years they had been separated? Had she done something wrong at Bad Wolf Bay, said something wrong? But she had kissed him, with all she was worth, when he had whispered the words that needed saying into her ear. She had wanted him to stay with her, had chosen him over the One Who Left—who had struck her as the alien he was for the first time since she had met the Doctor. More alien than during his regeneration or when he had made her feel the world moving.

The One Who Left had left without saying good-bye, refusing to tell her how he felt. The One Who Stayed might have been born in battle, and he might have committed genocide – but he had saved all other living beings in doing so. He had saved everyone's souls, had had to make a choice, and had done so bravely. He was a destroyer of worlds, true, but he never destroyed for the pure pleasure of it, or because he could, or for the greater glory. He always had done so for the greater good. And the greater good always came at a cost.

Rose wiped away the tears that were—again—running down her cheeks. This time, there was nothing she could do. She had lost his trace; even if she went to Florence she would never find him in her teeming streets—if he was still there. Maybe, probably, he had moved on to other places. Places without postcards. Or a reliable postal service. Or—and something froze inside her—he did not have enough money left to afford love letters.

She would not allow the idea of an accident take shape in her head.

And suddenly, she remembered.

She turned around to face her desk again, arranged the Doctor's love letters in a neat pile and switched on her laptop, established a connection to the internet. One didn't need to be with Torchwood to look for people in your own universe.

Then she googled Donna. She had spent several weeks looking for Donna Noble in another universe, and she had found her, time and again. If she was lucky, Donna Noble had a twin in Pete's World, a twin who went by the same name—she remembered Mickey's counterpart Rickey; if the twin wasn't called Donna she'd be stumped—and a twin who was still alive. And finding her here was certainly going to be easier than on Earth.

She breathed deeply when the search engine came up with a modest list of results.

Most of the results turned out to be inconclusive, because the references were too old or contradictory or located on three different continents—one of them, luckily, in Britain, a student of medicine presenting her research. No picture, though, to confirm it was her Donna. Rose smiled. So much for super temp. It was a step forward, but she was still hesitant to do anything based on this rather old information. Quite a few things tended to happen in fifteen years. She bookmarked the site anyway, then decided, on a whim, that it couldn't hurt to search for pictures.

The search engine came up with more recent pictures: an obituary and a birth announcement. With trembling fingers, Rose clicked on the thumb of the obituary. And held her breath. Sylvia Noble had been killed in an accident. Donna was listed as bereaved family, together with someone called Mark and Samuel, under the name of Mullen, followed by Wilfred Mott. Her grandfather.

Rose's heart was going so fast she needed to get up and take in a deep breath. She had not expected to find Donna so quickly, not after the initial search results. Rose went into the kitchen to put the kettle on for a cup of tea. What now? She hadn't known this kind of weakness in herself. When she had been looking for Donna Noble, she had done everything in her power, without thinking twice. But she knew what the difference was with Donna Mullen: she didn't know the Doctor. Her life was blissfully devoid of his presence (considering what her twin had experienced, even if she was now unaware of him). Like the Donna she had made turn left.

But then again, all she wanted from Donna was to see if she had met the Doctor. If she hadn't, Donna would go back to her life and forget about the scene. No harm done. Her search would continue, but no one was going to be harmed.

But what if she knew the Doctor? Rose found that suddenly she was quite afraid of what would happen if Donna actually knew the Doctor.

She dropped a teabag into her favourite mug, added milk and sugar, and took the piping hot drink back to her study. Thoughtfully, she stopped in the doorway and looked at the Doctor's bed. How close was she to finding him, to getting him back – or to losing him forever? Rose felt sick.

The birth announcement, she found out after she had finished half of the tea, was Samuel Mullen's. He was six years old by now. The picture made the hairs in the nape of her neck stand on end. Now there was no doubt. Donna Mullen was the woman she was looking for. She was in the picture that went with the birth announcement, with baby Samuel in her arms and Mark wrapping his arm around her. She looked exhausted but utterly happy. Just like her mother had when her picture had been taken with Tony in his arms. Only that her picture had drawn more attention, being the Vitex wife and all.

Rose picked up the phone and used the one-touch dialling to call Jackie.

"Mum?"

"Hi, sweetie, I've been meanin' to call you. You haven't forgotten about tonight, right?"

Tonight? Rose's head was spinning as it was. She sat heavily in the armchair opposite her desk.

"Rose? Love, you alright?" Jackie sounded positively worried.

"I think I've found Donna," Rose blurted.

For a beat or two there was only the soft static of the line.

"She's the most important woman in the universe. The Doctor kept telling her. I remembered. Mum," Rose explained quickly, "Mum, what if she knows where the Doctor is?"

Again, silence answered her.

Then: "What if she doesn't?" Jackie asked kindly, softly. She was hurting for Rose already, and what she didn't want was for her to hurt even more when she found out that–

"There's a Donna Noble in this universe?" Jackie asked in surprise.

Rose's voice was still trembling. "Yes, Mum, and I've found her."

"What if she doesn't?"

"Then at least I'll have tried, won't I?" There was defiance in Rose's voice.

Jackie sighed. "I don't mean to spoil this for you, sweetheart. But you have to be careful there. Don't let him break your heart again."

Rose had to admit that her mother was right. She wiped away a tear that had escaped. Again. She was so sick of crying. She was so sick of this.

"What's this thing tonight, anyway?" she asked, attempting to be cheery. She didn't feel like going out, but she knew Jackie would appreciate it. And maybe it would take her mind off things. Off the Doctor, the idiot.

The grating was cutting into his flesh, particularly into the bony bit of his ankles, but he didn't care much. All he could feel was Jenny's cool hand grow colder in his own, and if he could, he would have given her one of his hearts, one of his lives to save her, his daughter who was a bit too much like him and yet not like him enough. He had pointed a gun – a gun! – at someone. He, the man who never would, had been tempted, on behalf of a daughter that was created in war, to kill her killer. The shame of it, the revulsion made him sick to the core. Where it mingled with the pain and sorrow of losing yet another one dear to him. It all ended with him alone.

He flew, howling, into a rage.

There was a terrible pain that cut white-hot through the swirling multicoloured patterns that danced before his eyes. He curled up in on himself as best he could, trying to become one with the dark, quiet corner and unforgiving hard floor. He could barely breathe, and his whole body was shaking with his sobs and pain.

There was a soft, gentle voice, a bit unsteady at first, but it grew into something calming but powerful, just like the hand he was becoming aware of. It rested on his shoulder lightly, and he could feel the untiring thumb stroking him through the t-shirt. Eventually, the other hand was ghosting over his temple at first, then brushing gently, always accompanied by a never-ending stream of words.

"John?"

He recognised Chiara's voice, and he allowed her to draw him up and into an embrace. She held him tightly, and it was only then that he noticed her whole little body was shaking.

"John," she repeated, followed by more words that made no sense, but weren't intended to anyway. She was stroking his back. He relaxed a bit more in her arms, conscious suddenly of his bulk that his body must be to the girl, and he moved to accommodate them better.

"John."

There was something red on the shoulder of her nightie when eventually he drew away. He looked into the girl's eyes, wide with fear. Her fingers wandered up to his temple, and when she withdrew them, they were shiny with his blood.

"I'm," he was choking on the words, and it was hard to from them, even in Gallifreyan, "I'm so sorry, Chiara, so sorry. Thank you, thank you for being here, my little angel." He kissed her forehead, and when he made to climb to his feet, he remembered that he couldn't, and let the arms that appeared out of thin air lift him up and pull him into a wheelchair.

"I'm so sorry, Chiara," he repeated, the words coming easier now, "you shouldn't have done that. But thank you anyway. Chiara." He knew she couldn't understand him, so he put as much meaning into his eyes as he possibly could.

They tended to the cut on his forehead, and this time he watched calmly as they pushed up the short leg of his boxers to inject him with a powerful sleeping drug.

The papers had had a field day at the Tyler's party. They had expected to see some more of the Vitex heiress and her mysterious beau. The man had turned up virtually out of thin air as far as the media were concerned. They had, of course, made inquiries and had conducted research, but for all they knew the Prince Charming had disappeared just as quickly as he had appeared. Already, they were calling him Cinderella. And when there was no trace of him at the latest charity event at the Tyler Mansion that only proved their point.

The papers were full of Rose's pictures the next morning, and she had never looked sadder. Everyone noticed that, even those who were not known to be particularly sensitive. "Where is he?" was what most of the headlines boiled down to. The press loved Rose, because she was usually quite accommodating, and in return the press treated her quite respectfully. Most of the time.

Rose had stayed overnight at her parents', and she was in her room, sipping at her tea when Jackie came in. She was sitting at her dressing table, absentmindedly playing with the silver butterfly that she had worn in her hair the previous night. The party had been a nice distraction, after all, but she didn't have to see her pictures in the newspapers to know that she was rubbish when it came to acting.

Jackie stepped up behind her, picked up the hairbrush and began to work through her daughter's dark blond hair strand by strand.

"I'm sorry for last night," Jackie eventually offered.

"Yeah," Rose mumbled. "Don't." Yet she relaxed visibly under her mother's ministrations.

"No, sweetheart, I really am," Jackie insisted. "I am just so angry at that silly Time Lord of yours. How dare he do that to you? How could he?" She huffed, but to her credit she was still careful with the hairbrush.

Rose hugged her knees. "Yeah."

"Look," Jackie put down the hairbrush and squatted next to her. She held out a sticky note for Rose.

"Wha's that?"

"Donna's phone number."

Donna picked up the mug to finish her tea, but only realised the mug was already empty when she put its edge to her lips. Sighing she put it down again. Lost in thought, she looked at the picture on the rag one of her colleagues had left for the rest of the doctors to peruse. She normally preferred a newspaper with less pictures and more text, but when she was taking a break while on duty, a tabloid was most welcome. Took your mind off things in an undemanding way. She usually had forgotten about what she'd read the minute she left the lounge.

But Rose Tyler's sad eyes would not leave her alone. Apparently, she had had an affair of some kind, something supposedly serious, and now the poor girl was left broken-hearted. Donna had not realised that the Vitex heiress had been seeing someone. But then again she had more important things to do than follow celebrity gossip. It was bad enough as it was, but with the press drooling and gloating having your heart broken must be even worse. She did not envy that poor rich girl.

She retrieved her mobile phone from her locker and rang the hospital in Florence. She wanted to confirm her ETA with Giorgio, and of course check how John was doing.

When she closed her phone all she wanted to do was get on that train to Florence. Immediately. Something was going very wrong, and with no one there to speak for him ... but there was nothing she had been able to do, except tell Giorgio to have a little faith.

"He hurt himself last night, Donna," he told her. "He was having a particularly bad nightmare. He could have hurt Chiara."

"Who is Chiara?" Donna had asked, pushing the fact that he had hurt himself to the back of her mind for the moment. She probably was a nurse she hadn't met, on the night shift.

"She took care of him," Giorgio explained.

"That's very kind of her, I'll have to thank her."

"Donna," Giorgio said urgently, "she's twelve. She's a patient."

Donna felt a lump form in her throat. "I ... I can't leave any earlier here, I'm afraid. Please, please don't count him off as crazy. I know he isn't."

"He speaks in tongues," Giorgio continued. "No one can understand him. I'm afraid we'll have to do something."

Donna's heart sank. There was nothing she could say to explain that fact away. "What're you going to do?"

"I ..." he paused. "I see what I can do. You are going to come, yes?"

Donna nodded. "Most definitely." And, after a brainwave: "Look, can I talk to him?"

"He's in physio now."

They made him hobble around on crutches, just like Chiara. He still felt very ashamed of himself for the previous night's episode, and he had nothing to give her. He leaned heavily on his crutches in front of her room. The door was open, but he couldn't bring himself to enter.

Chiara was sitting on her bed, reading a book. Her notebook and her pencil case sat on the bedside table next to her. There were no flowers, no fruit, no sweets, just a jug of water. He was still debating whether to go to her, when she sensed his presence and looked up from her book.

She was actually smiling. "John!"

He hobbled over to her and sat on her bed, so he could give his bad leg a rest. He had hit it pretty badly during his nightmare the previous night, and it was still smarting. Just like his head.

Chiara touched her temple in the place where he had injured himself. He mirrored her movement and smiled. It was okay, he was such a silly man, it meant to say.

He pointed at her notebook, and when she nodded, he pulled it towards him and under Rose's name he wrote, squinting, stretching as far away from the notebook as possible: "I'm sorry." In the hope that maybe Chiara had enough English to understand.

Chiara bent forwards to read the words. She smiled, and nodded. Then she added something.

But before he could react, the dark cherry haired nurse returned. If she was surprised at finding him by Chiara's side, she didn't show it. But she couldn't hide a brief flicker or relief. She spoke to Chiara, and Chiara replied. Both mentioned his name, John. Chiara showed her what he had written.

A wave of embarrassment washed over him. He wasn't quite the calligrapher, being new to Latin script and all, but he knew that he could write better than he had in the notebook. The letters looked awkward and squiggly.

"Chiara," he said, catching the girl's attention. He didn't know the nurse's name. Just like the previous day, he resorted to mimicry to tell her what he needed. Glasses.

And the dark cherry haired nurse suddenly realised. The young doctor came, and another one, and he had to undergo more exams in strange apparatuses that left him bleary-eyed and nearly blind, but the next morning – he had willingly accepted more sleeping drugs – Chiara gave him a pair of spectacles.

"_Molto_ _bene_!" he exclaimed in delight when he tried them on and he could see things. "_Molto_ _bene_!"

For the first time in ages he felt human again – how ironical – and he borrowed Chiara's notebook and her pencils and drew what he wanted most.

Rose.

And then another little wonder happened. The dark cherry haired nurse showed him a newspaper, which he wanted to refuse at first, but when she unfolded it to show him there she was – Rose.

"Rose," he said tenderly, and when he noticed the sadness in her eyes and shoulders, he hung his head. He leaned into Chiara, who could not be made to leave him, and wept.

Donna took a taxi from Santa Maria Novella to the rehab unit John had been taken to that morning. She would meet with Giorgio for dinner, but she had to see John first. She had no idea what she was going to accomplish with that, since his vocabulary did not extend beyond a couple of names and _molto_ _bene_. But that was ... _molto_ _bene_ in a way. It proved her right, there was more to John than met the eye. And she had an idea of what it might be, but to confirm her suspicion, she had to see him first. And if she was right ... well, then all the more _molto_ _bene_.

The taxi was taking her outside the city, into the hills of the Chianti via narrow, winding roads that rose and fell with the landscape, through quiet villages whose inhabitants spent most of their lives outside the shuttered stone buildings that lined the road, on vine-shaded arbours and benches in front of their homes, dogs sleeping by their side and children playing under the cypress trees in the piazza by the church.

The car's windows were open, and Donna enjoyed the wind playing in her hair. She was exhausted from the long hours on the train – she had booked a bed in the sleeper from Munich to Florence, but her busy mind had made more than dozing for fifteen minutes at a time impossible, unthinkable. But she couldn't wait to see John. After that disastrous night he seemed to have recovered a bit, to be doing better.

The combined chirping and vibrating of her mobile phone woke her from her thoughts. She flipped it open, but did not recognise the caller. Who was calling her from Britain, anyway? Only a select few knew she was here, and she had left the hospital's mobile at home.

"Yes?"

"Am I speaking with Doctor Donna Mullen?" Donna didn't recognise the female voice. She sounded young, though. After she had confirmed that yes, she was the woman in question, the voice continued, obviously quite relieved, but laced with a trace of apprehension: "I'm Rose Tyler."

"Yeah, right. Is that why you're calling me on my holiday? To pull some kind of prank on me? Listen, honey, this is not funny, okay?" Donna replied. Strictly speaking she was not on a holiday, but that was not the point.

"No, but I am," the woman said. And something in her voice sounded so serious and urgent that Donna believed her. "I am Rose Tyler."

"Yeah."

"Your husband was kind enough to give me your number," Rose explained. "I realise it's your holiday, and I'm awfully sorry for disturbing your well-earned peace and quiet. But you are the only person in the world that can help me now."

Donna could not imagine why that should be so. "Go on."

"Do you know a man called the Doctor?" Rose said.

"Look," Donna began, drawing on all her professional patience, "I am a doctor. I work at a hospital. How many people called the doctor d'you think there are in such a place?" Knackered as she was, she failed completely and utterly. "I'm sorry."

"What about a John Smith?" Rose suggested.

"No, sorry," Donna said, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

"A Doctor James McCrimmon, by any chance?"

"May I ask why you're looking for him?" Donna asked softly after she had had to deny again.

"He's ... a friend." The way she said this suggested to Donna that they were talking about more than just a friend. They were quite possibly talking about Cinderella.

"Look, I wish I could help you, Miss Tyler, but things are a bit complicated at the moment." She was expecting Rose to ring off, when she had an idea. "I'm a bit rubbish with names, but if you have any chance of sending me his picture I might be able to help."

Rose Tyler didn't really sound relieved, but hope was definitely something Donna heard when she agreed. She rang off, having told her to ring her again in a couple of minutes. Then she waited for the picture to arrive, so she could tell the woman that she didn't know the man and be over and done with with this bizarre story. She needed to get to John, and quickly.

Her mobile chirped, and she opened the message to have a look at the picture.

Donna stared.

Rose dropped the phone and slat heavily on her bed. It had taken her two days to finally work up the courage to dial the number on the sticky note. Her mobile hit the soft carpet with a dull thud, no damage done. Jackie rose quickly, demanding from her daughter what was the matter, but Rose was rigid with shock. Her lips were moving, but no sound came past them. The phone ... Jackie found it, and when she asked Donna if she was still there, she felt her pulse quicken.

"Are you absolutely sure?" Jackie asked, again, after she had introduced herself. The funny thing was, that woman was just as puzzled as she was.

"We've been looking for his family for ages," Donna told her.

"Oh, but we're not family," Jackie replied. "The Doctor is Rose's ... whatever. They're very close."

"The Doctor? Is that his name? And we've been calling him John," Donna repeated, chagrined.

"Nah, don't worry, love. He'll answer to John," Jackie said. "Thank goodness we've found him. Tell you what, I'll take care of Rose, and she'll call you back when she's better. It's been a bit of a shock really. Ta!"

Donna was in mid-protest when Jackie rang off.

"Mum!" Rose had composed herself enough to protest, but she was trembling all over. Donna did indeed know the Doctor. But how come, she had no idea. Donna knew him, and that was the important thing. Brilliant Donna. The most important woman in the universe all over again. Even if she wouldn't save the universe, she at least would save Rose's little world. If there was anything salvageable. Rose still had no idea why the Doctor had left her. Well, she had an idea, but she wanted to hear him tell her.

Which would be a bit of a problem what with him not speaking English.

"Here, love, drink this," Jackie said, pushing a mug of tea into her hands. Rose hadn't realised she'd been gone.

This new room looked like the one he had booked in the hotel but never really used, and the room back at the hospital In Florence. Still, it looked more like a room for sick people, even if it was friendly and cool, not only a pristine white, with the dark beams in the ceiling exposed to the eye, and the smooth marble floor. There was a proper table in this room, and chairs that looked inviting, and an old wardrobe. Not that he had much of anything to keep in it. He possessed nothing beyond the things Donna had brought, and the sketch-pad and pencils Chiara had given him this morning as a going-away present.

He still could not believe they had not taken him to a mental institution, not after what had happened. But as they had pushed him in here in his wheelchair (they had cut away the cast the day before and replaced it with a removable splint), he had seen other people in wheelchairs and on crutches or walkers. People of all ages. And none of them had looked crazy.

No sooner had he arrived in this room than he was wheeled out of it again, to a whole morning of seeing strange doctors and exams after exams and prodding and grabbing – some of it made him screw his eyes shut in pain. His teeth hurt afterwards, because he had clenched his jaws so tightly.

When he was returned to his room, he felt he had run a marathon, and for the first time this day he was glad that he had been given this wheelchair. He was sure that he would not have gotten far on crutches.

There was someone in his room when he pushed open the door. Oh, and all he wanted to do was stretch out on the bed and sleep, sleep the midday heat away, and without fear, too, for he never dreamed during the day. But then he recognised the person's posture.

"Donna?"

She turned around, and true, it was Donna, but he could see, even in the twilight of the shuttered room, the cool room, that she was exhausted. Why had she returned? What was she doing here?

"John," she replied, smiling. And then she said something that ended with "Doctor".

He held fast to the rails on his wheels to let the nurse know he didn't want to go any further. He felt her let go of the wheelchair and leave the room, her shoes clap-clapping away on the marble.

"Doctor," Donna repeated.

She was using his name. How come she knew his name? The image of an enraged Rumpelstiltskin briefly flashed through his mind – the part of it that had been Donna's. She was by his side with a few quick steps, and she wrapped her arms around him. Before he knew it, he was returning the gesture, remembering despite himself the comfort he had always found in Donna's embrace.

Later, when they were having lunch together on the shady terrace, she had to push the fork into his hand again, but this time because he was still so surprised that she was there that he simply forgot.

"_Molto_ _bene_," he offered.

This time, he watched her talk, even when he didn't understand a single word of what she was saying. Her presence and her care made him feel so much better, and he listened to Donna's small voice echoing in his mind that he should bloody well not feel ashamed for it. Still, he could not bring himself to learn. He did not want to hurt anyone, least of all this woman, to whom he was a total stranger, and whom he had already caused a lot of distress.

He reached out across the smoothly polished wood of the table and covered her hand with his. He even attempted a smile. It felt good to touch Donna's hand again, it was like homecoming in a way, but it was strange to see that she was wearing a wedding band. He withdrew his hand a little, and brushed across the smooth gold with his fingertip. A powerful feeling of gratitude washed through him. The fates of Pete's World had dealt her different cards, better ones, considering. But then he didn't know anything about her.

They spent the hottest part of the day in companionable silence in the dappled light of an arbour overgrown with greenery. At one point in the crickets' incessant song Donna dozed off, and he realised that she had come straight off the train to come and see him. And while he was grateful that she was there, something, somebody was still missing. He wanted nothing more than write to Rose, tell her that he was all right. Which was a lie, of course, but only the Donna in his mind knew that; and Rose would understand.

The Doctor moved to be next to Donna, and kissed her temple. "Donna?"

Donna stirred and looked at him, momentarily disoriented. "Doctor?"

He tried to ignore the ache where his second heart would be, and pretended to write something. "Rose," he said, and repeated the gesture.

Donna, bless her, had understood. She nodded, smiling, but hesitated for a beat. Then she patted his arm, and got up. The Doctor followed her retreating form with his eyes, wondering why she had paused.

A nurse came to take him somewhere, but he engaged the brake. "No," he said. "Donna."

The nurse nodded and left.

That was easy.

Eventually, Donna returned with a postcard and a pen. He took both and the book Donna offered him to rest on. She turned tactfully away while he was writing, to contemplate the scenery. The terrace they had chosen overlooked a valley below, with the small village that nestled there, surrounded by vineyards and olive groves, and with the cupola of Florence in the distance, hazy and shimmering in the afternoon heat.

When he had written the two short sentences that comprised his world, he realised that he did not know Rose's address. He had never bothered to learn it by heart, and now it was lost; like the TARDIS coral.

What good was anything now?

Shoving the postcard off his knees, he growled in frustration, which raised Donna from her discretion.

"Oi!" she shouted, followed by something that in another world would have been along the lines of "Watch it, space boy!" He tore the glasses off his nose and pinched the spot between his eyes that offered comfort.

"No," he muttered. "No Rose."

Donna had picked up the book and postcard, and in doing so, her gaze had inadvertently fallen on the few words he had written. She smiled at him, pointing at the blank space beneath Rose's name, her chest and her temple. She would find out her address for him.

"No," he said tunelessly, and wheeled away. The nurse was waiting.

Donna cursed herself. She should have called Rose when she had the chance instead of getting up to collect the postcard for the Doctor. Instead of wanting to surprise him, she should have called Rose then and there and given him the mobile to talk to her – or rather listen to her. Whatever. But the moment had passed, and now it was too late.

She cursed herself again. Some doctor she was! You did not want to surprise people who suffered from post traumatic stress syndrome. He had warmed a bit when she had called him Doctor, something had flashed in his – Donna was reluctant to use the word, but she couldn't think of anything better – in his doe eyes. And he had felt safe in the memory of Rose Tyler, and the same memory had shattered him when he realised that he didn't know her address. Dammit, she should have called the woman. Taken advantage of this good moment. But now he had retreated again, and the expression of self-loathing and loss in his face had sent shivers down her spine.

Her eyes travelled back to what he had written: _Rose, I love you. I'm sorry_. Followed by a word – was it a word, or just an ornament? – that looked like a mixture of Arabic and Tolkienesque script.

Had Rose not called her and told her personally that she knew the Doctor, Donna would have been seriously worried. Women like Rose Tyler received all kinds of weird attention, and one had to be careful with fan-boys turned stalker. But the Doctor meant it. In a good way. Donna had gleaned as much from her short conversation with Rose and her mother. The Doctor was Cinderella, this thin streak of nothing of a man with the oldest, wisest, saddest eyes she had ever seen; a lost boy.

But whatever was it that had happened between the two of them? And why did he go by all those different names? And how come he knew her name?

It had been with mixed feelings that Rose had got on the train, first to Paris, then to Munich. It had taken her some time to recover enough from her initial shock that she had actually found Donna, and with her the Doctor, even. She wanted to drive down to Tuscany, but Pete had taken the keys. He was not going to let her go by car alone – and alone she wanted to go. So she had to take the train. Again. And now that she was sitting on the train, in the darkness of the Channel tunnel, gnawing at the back of her thumb, she was glad that Pete had put his foot down.

The train, of course, was faster than her little car, and she could travel without having to take a break, without being stalled by heavy traffic. And yet she felt she was at the mercy of someone else, some faceless engine driver who didn't realize how badly she wanted to arrive. She couldn't eat, and she couldn't read, and sleep – when it came – was restless and filled with the most absurd of images, some of which made her flush; with shame, and with rage, and once she woke up with tears rolling down her cheeks. The cold night of Brenner Pass rose her back to her senses, and she deeply, gratefully inhaled the clean, dark air of the mountains as they had to wait for the engine to be changed.

And yet she was unable to still her busy mind. Donna had not told her much about the Doctor, only that she knew him, and that she was with him. A ripple of static – probably caused by one of the occasional aftershocks they still experienced while the universe was sealing itself off again – had interrupted the call and made communication impossible. That's how it went. Those static ripples tended to take down the satellite network for hours at a time. And there was no way she would ring Donna in the middle of the night.

The attendant eventually woke her with a discreet knock on the door, an hour before the train pulled into Santa Maria Novella. Her stomach was rumbling, but the pastry, when she pecked at it, tasted bland, and the double espresso did nothing for her if not increase her nervousness.

Would he be wanting to see her at all?

Would he be all right? Donna's replies had been short and cryptic, and Donna was a doctor; expert at beating about the bush.

Rose just made it back to her compartment when the sickness overwhelmed her. Afterwards, she brushed her teeth, shocked at the pale face that looked back at her from the mirror, but she couldn't be bothered with make-up. The train had come to a halt.

She found Donna on the platform easily enough. She looked just as she remembered her, all thoughtful pout, attentive eyes and ginger hair swept up in a loose bun to allow the occasional breeze to cool the back of her neck. Rose pushed her sunglasses up into her hair, tightening her grip on the handle of her wheelie suitcase. The heat of the place would need some getting used to.

The Doctor wasn't there.

Did he at all know she was coming?

"Hello, Donna," Rose said, walking toward the older woman. After an awkward moment, Rose embraced her; she couldn't help herself.

Donna smiled at her, relief evident in her face. "I feel like I should know you, but I don't," she said. "You don't look too well. Have you had breakfast?"

"No," Rose admitted. This Donna was as disarming as the other universe's. "I ... I was too nervous."

"We can't go on an empty stomach," Donna said, taking her suitcase. "Believe me."

They went into a little café in one of the side streets off the station. Donna ordered breakfast for the two of them, hearty sandwiches – _panini_ was what they were calling them here –, fresh orange juice and coffee. After Rose had taken the first few bites rather unenthusiastically, she felt the comforting qualities of the food calm her down. The two women finished their breakfast in companionable silence.

"Now, whose story first?" Donna eventually began.

Rose, despite herself, decided to begin. She had a feeling that with the help of what she knew, it would be a lot easier for Donna to make sense of what had happened, of the Doctor. "How familiar, exactly, are you with the Stolen Earth?"

Donna shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "I was here when it happened, learning Italian. My family were back home, and ... well you can imagine. Those Dalek things were everywhere; those overgrown salt cellars with those plungers ..." Donna was literally trying grasp the concept of the aliens as she explained what they looked like.

"The Doctor, you, some others and I defeated them. And brought Earth back," Rose said, waiting for the information to sink in.

"What do you mean! Me?"

Rose then explained to Donna the concept of parallel universes, and the fact that while she herself did not have a twin here, Donna certainly did. And Jackie and Pete. In a manner of speaking.

"So how did I end up saving the universe? How come I was there with you and the Doctor?" Donna's voice was infused with incredulous laughter.

"I'm afraid I don't know how you ended up travelling with the Doctor. You see, he travels in time and space, in a ship that looks like a police box. And sometimes he travels with a companion. I used to travel with him that way, until ... until I got trapped here, in this universe. Then he travelled with Martha, who helped return the Earth, and then it was ... you. Donna, the super temp from Chiswick," Rose said.

"I'm temping in the other universe?" Donna couldn't believe it. She went off to buy another latte macchiato. "So, and now the Doctor travels this universe?" Only I clipped his wings was what she added in the privacy of her thoughts.

"No," Rose inhaled deeply, still nursing her first cappuccino, finishing the frothy milk with a spoon. She was debating how much she could tell Donna without hurting her. Decided, that in the end, it was best just not to tell her everything. "No, this Doctor doesn't travel the universe anymore. You see, an accident happened on the Crucible, which left behind a half-human ... clone of the Doctor. This half-human version stayed behind here, with me. The Other returned to his original universe with Donna."

Again, it took Donna a while to digest what she had learned. "So ... the Doctor is an alien. Is that what you're trying to tell me?"

Rose smiled for the first time that day. "Yes and no. He has the mind of a Time Lord – that's what he is – but he has the body of a human."

"What does he look like ... you know, as a Time Lord?"

Now, that was a tricky question. Rose decided that honesty was the least Donna deserved. So she told her about regenerating.

"That's quite the eye candy among aliens, then," Donna replied, laughing to hide her amazement.

Rose finally relaxed. "You could say that, yes."

"And you're in love with him?"

"Yes, I am. Very much so." Somehow it was liberating to tell this a relative stranger. Rose felt the spirits return to her, but with them came the anxiousness that had been her companion for the past couple of weeks.

Sensing this, Donna took a postcard with a Tuscan landscape from her handbag and handed it to Rose. "He wrote that yesterday."

Rose read the message, and although it was very familiar, it brought tears to her eyes. She wiped at her eyes surreptitiously, laughing at the same time because he still loved her. "Thank you."

"No, don't thank me," Donna said, unable to meet her eyes. When she looked up again, Rose couldn't quite read the expression in them, and Donna's inability to find the right words to begin unnerved her. A most powerful feeling of having seen and lived through all this before grasped her.

"Go on," she encouraged her, bravely. "Say it." _Even if it's not good. Now I'll learn why he's not here, why he didn't come with her._ Rose closed her eyes to fight back the new wave of nausea and light-headedness that threatened to take her away with them.

"There has been an accident," Donna said, and the ease with which she was slipping into her professional mantle did not go unnoticed. Rose envied her that kind of training. She wished she could stay as calm as her, but she tried anyway, focusing on the facts. _There has been an accident._ A perfectly neutral sentence. A sentence perfect for destruction. All she had to do was listen, perfectly neutral.

"How bad is it?"

"He suffered a concussion, some minor cuts and bruises," Donna said. "And he broke his left leg, rather badly. He's going to be all right, given some time and physio. But at the moment he's in a wheelchair."

The knuckles on both her hands, Rose noticed, stood out white against her skin as she wrought her fingers. "How did it happen?"

"He stepped into the road without looking. There was no chance of avoiding it. It happened so quickly."

The Doctor was alive. He'd had an accident, but he was going to be all right. That silly man, steps into the road without looking. Travels time and space, fights the scum of the universe only to be hit by a car.

Rose breathed deeply, forced the muscles in her shoulders and neck to relax. And there she had feared the worst.

"There is something else I have to tell you." Donna's words cut into her thoughts, caught her unawares. "I know all this because I was there when it happened. I was driving."

-:-

The rehab unit had a little shop. It had to, and it did. There was a paper bracelet they had tied around his right wrist, paper that was hard to tear and that didn't melt away in the shower, and he showed it the shop-girl when he had found what he was looking for. The girl noted down something in a ledger, nodded and smiled at him, a "_Molto_ _bene_" on her lips.

The Doctor wheeled away with a small blue box of what seemed to be chocolates in his lap. His leg was hurting, his whole body felt sore after a session of physio earlier that morning. The removable splint, once again firmly in place, gripped the slack flesh of his leg tightly. Also, the heat of this place didn't do much for his well-being. Already, his skin felt hot and sticky, and he longed for the slatted light in his cool room, for the peace and quiet it offered him.

Donna was gone, once again, and perhaps it was better this way. He wouldn't hurt her, he wouldn't be tempted to open up to her, to give in to her encouraging and disarming compassion. But then again, this wasn't his Donna. This was Donna of Pete's World, Donna-Who-Didn't-Know. Donna-With-a-Bad-Conscience who only put up with him because there was no one to blame her for what she had done.

He gritted his teeth.

A nurse approached him. Again. Couldn't they just leave him be? He felt the muscles in his jaw work. But he didn't engage the brake when the nurse stepped behind him to grab the handles and wheel him outside, the tyres soundless on the marble, her shoes flap-flapping. Out into the brightness and the heat of the day, where everything disintegrated into a shimmering haze in the distance, with the crickets to keep him company. Just as well. He didn't care much.

She took him down the path, into the cooler part of the garden, where she parked him in the spicy shade of a tree, where already a jug of water and a glass were waiting for him. Why did they make him drink so much, when they knew that getting up to use the loo was painful and awkward and difficult and everything else take care of that out of the question? He did have that much pride left, thank you very much.

He allowed her to help him settle down in the deckchair that sat waiting there for him, the sooner to be left alone. It was just as well that she took the wheelchair, but he would have loved one of those chocolates.

As his body relaxed into the softness of the deckchair's cushions, his eyes drifted shut, and he felt himself drift into the kind of weightlessness that carries you from waking into sleeping, and because he was so tired from the morning's exertions, he let his mind follow his body's lead.

He didn't know how long he had lain like this, but he felt ... the absence of pain when he squinted into the light that filtered through the silver canopy of olive leaves above him, flecks of light dancing on his skin. For the first time, there was no pain, not in his leg, not in the emptiness that was his chest, where his second heart used to be. The grass felt soft and prickly at the same time, tickling his skin.

He had not taken any painkillers, had he? Or was it something they had added to his water?

He pushed himself up to his elbows, and in doing so he noticed the delicious drowsiness that he had last felt ... too long a time ago, in another time, in another universe. A blonde woman had lain with him, not in the grass, but in soft, luxurious sheets, with blonde hair that was too long and a face that was all too perfect. The woman who had left him in a hearse. The loss as her weight was lifted from his body weighed down heavily on him, and there was another shadow darting around the curtains and draperies, the phantom of a woman with the perfect pony tail and the face that was perfect in its small imperfections. He wanted to reach out for her, to rise and call out her name, but he couldn't. The single syllable of her name wouldn't leave his lips.

His arms gave under the immense weight that had been crushing him down, centering on his chest, making it hard for him to breathe, impossible, but he was not in a panic, the respiratory bypass would kick in, soon enough.

But instead, the pain returned, shaking him awake.

With a gasp, he surfaced, finding himself curled into the deckchair under the spicy tree. And there was not a trace of the woman with the perfect hair. She would leave him, again and again, even in his dreams.

He was lying on his left side.

"Rose."

There was no tone in the single syllable.

Rose swallowed hard, picking up the spoon only to drop it back onto the saucer a beat later with a bright clatter. She had done this to him. Anger welled up inside her, raw and all-consuming because of the additional pain she had caused this man who had been hurting all over anyway.

No.

It had been an accident, and it forced him to stop his running. There was no place here nor anywhere else in the whole universe he could turn to to get rid of his demons. The running kept his too clever, too brilliant mind busy as he faced the demons of other worlds. Oh, he would be fine at one point, relatively speaking of course. Rose had seen it happen before. But there was a limit to everything, and if she was honest with herself, just as she had been at Dålig Ulv Stranden, when the pain had overcome her, raw and shocking, she was not so sure if she could nurse the Doctor back to health as she had before.

"Yes," Rose said, more to herself than Donna. She looked up to meet her eyes. "I'm glad it was you. It must sound cruel," she conceded, acknowledging Donna's incredulous expression. "But I would never have been able to find him if it hadn't been for you. Can you understand that?"

"I'm trying, but if I'm being honest I can't say I really do," Donna replied, laughing nervously. She had obviously expected hell to break loose at her confession, but what she got was … this.

Rose explained herself. And Donna understood.

"I think he suffers from PTSD," Donna eventually said. "And what you've told me about him backs it all up. It's rather difficult to come up with the right diagnosis with patients who don't speak. He's not always been that quiet, has he?"

Rose laughed. "No, usually you can hardly get him to shut up." But that had already changed at Bad Wolf Bay, when his words had been well-measured.

Donna nodded. "The nurses and Chiara have told me about his night terrors." She told her about the twelve year-old who had so bravely approached the Doctor when he had been at his most forbidding.

"He's always had nightmares," Rose mused. "I guess it's worse for him now that he has to sleep just as much as the rest of us. As a full Time Lord he could do with very little sleep."

"Which is lucky when these hours tend to be full of nightmares," Donna agreed. "But night terrors are different. They are worse, because they affect the whole body." After a brief pause she asked Rose if she was ready to go.

To her surprise Rose felt she was, really was ready to meet him for the first time since that Sunday morning.

They put Rose's suitcase in the back of the little car Donna had hired, next to a bag with clothes for the Doctor. "It's the least I could do for him," Donna said. Then they zoomed through the scenery, less confident than the cabby, but both safe and fast enough for the women's liking.

"'s beautiful," Rose said, enjoying the warm breeze in her face.

"Wait till you see the view from the rehab unit's arbour. It's breathtaking."

The rehab unit turned out to be housed in an old manor and Rose thought that there could be no better place to recover than this. Modern extensions had been added carefully and tastefully. There even was a small guest house for relatives – part of the old manor –, but Donna could not convince her to go there first. Gone was her insecurity from earlier that morning, replaced by anxiousness so overpowering that it took a lot of patience on her part to allow the receptionist to take down her name and wait for her visitor's bracelet. Luckily enough, she literally ran into the nurse who was in charge of the Doctor, and so the search for him came to an end sooner than expected, and rather abruptly.

Rose only realised that she had been clinging to Donna when she let go of her hand to finally meet the Doctor. He was curled up in a deckchair in the shade of a gnarled old olive tree. As she stepped closer she saw the removable splint on his left leg, and the nakedness of his good one. Together with the t-shirt and the boxers he was wearing, she felt an intimacy in the scene that was more vulnerable than the kiss they had shared in Norway.

She covered her mouth with her hand to stifle a cry that was lodged in her throat. He was staring into the distance, totally oblivious to her and Donna's presence. Rose sat on the deckchair, in the small space of the crook that was his body, and touched his cheek. It was damp with sweat, and he was breathing heavily, shaking even.

"Doctor," she said softly. "Wake up, it's just a dream. Doctor."

He focused on her, and for an awful second it did not seem that he realised who she was. But then he broke into the brightest, happiest of his smiles, the smile he treasured just for her, and he sat up to draw her into a crushing embrace.

"Rose!" he cried, followed by a stream of Gallifreyan that sounded more musical than ever, and which Rose could not understand, of course. Rose turned her head to kiss whatever her lips could reach of him, and returned the hug with all her might.

Then the Doctor let go of her to look into her eyes lovingly, a gaze that made her want to mould her body close to his so they might never be separate again. He ran his fingers through her windswept hair and thus cradling her head drew her towards him in a kiss. It was infinitely tender and slow, so utterly without any rush, very unlike the embrace, and it almost felt as though it was a kiss good-bye.

Which it was, Rose understood, as he trailed the backs of his fingers down her cheek. His hands dropped into his lap, and he leaned back into the cushions, his eyes closed, but smiling to himself.

People smiled like that in their sleep, when they were dreaming.

Was this what she had become for the Doctor? A nice dream?

The sob she had tried to suppress earlier escaped her before she could cover her lips, aquiver with the tears that were already filling her eyes. In a half-hearted, timorous attempt to wake him, she covered his right hand with her hers, where it lay in his lap, limp and unusually warm – for a Time Lord, perfectly normal for a human.

She felt Donna's hands on her shoulders. She rose and allowed her to make her sit in a chair she had drawn up from somewhere. "He's asleep," Donna reassured her. "What just happened is probably just a dream to him. Let me take care of him for the moment, will you?"

Rose knew Donna was right, the Doctor looked very much asleep – not that she could tell for sure, having rarely seen him sleep – but she still couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss. She knew that kind of dream that seemed so real, even in a slumber as this. It would be all so very real, and yet at the same time you realised it was just a dream. You knew it couldn't be real. That's what the Doctor was going through now, Rose told herself, he had no chance of knowing that she was really there, that it had not been a dream. She cleaned her nose in a brave attempt to pull herself together.

It was all a little bit much, and Rose had now reached the point at which it came all crashing down on her, the tension of the past months, tension that had been building since the first trials of the dimension cannon, tension that should have been resolved – for a bit at least – a couple of weeks ago.

Their reunions had been so very different from what she had expected, and the worst thing was that it had always caught her unawares, despite her better knowledge, despite the warnings from Pete and Jackie and Mickey and all the others at Torchwood. The first time, the Doctor had been cut down by a Dalek and had died in her arms. And now? He had been run over by one of his own, and had learned the painful way what having a limited human life-span meant. He could be dead, Rose suddenly realised, if Donna had driven any faster. Or if he'd been run over by someone else, someone who knew their way round the narrow Florentine streets.

What wouldn't leave her alone, was the intensity of the gaze, the expression in his ancient eyes. And for that tiny instant that the memory needed to flit across her mind, Rose's resolve faltered, and she had to look away.

Donna was right. The view of the valley below was breathtaking.

The Doctor could feel the softness of her lips on his, the wisp of her perfect blonde hair as it had fallen across his cheek like a shadow, and the press of her breasts against his chest. It had all felt so real that he knew it couldn't be, that this was all just a dream, but it had not kept him from looking at her. It had, in fact, made it easier to bare his soul to her in that brief intense gaze they had shared. Naturally, his mind had seized that opportunity to punish him, for the happiness he had seen in her light brown eyes had been overshadowed with weariness. Her eyes had aged.

He knew he was the reason for that.

He held on to sleep, successfully, driving away that dream in which Rose had laid her small hand on his. End this wonderful, awful dream, end it, end it. As he turned in the cushions, she disappeared, and he sank into blankness again. The blankness that he so craved for in his daytime naps.

"Doctor?"

The voice was Donna's. But who else would it be but her, only she knew his name. Ever loyal Donna. She would return to him, not matter what, even when she didn't know him at all in Pete's World. She would not leave him, when Rose even left him in his dreams.

The Doctor opened his eyes, and he covered Donna's hand that was resting on his shoulder with his. He met her smiling eyes evenly, and removed her hand from his shoulder to give it a light squeeze.

"_Bene_?" Donna asked.

He felt himself nod. She deserved his best efforts, what with what had happened yesterday. "I'm sorry," he croaked. Not using his voice did this to him. He sipped the water that had warmed even here, in the late morning shade.

Donna smiled and nodded. Bless her.

It was then that from the corner of his eye he noticed movement, someone coming to join them. The nurse, probably, to take him somewhere for more exams or exercises. When he turned his head to acknowledge her arrival, his single heart recognised her before his mind did, and he grasped Donna's hand hard.

Rose was standing there, in the dappled light of the silver leaves that reminded him so much of home it hurt.

His hand slipped from Donna's and he barely registered her saying "It's not a dream, Doctor, she really is here." He meant to rise but his injured leg reminded him with a stab that he couldn't, but he didn't care, for Rose dropped to her knees next to him and wrapped her arms around him, just like in the dream he had just had. Only better.

Donna withdrew as she saw the Doctor and Rose so lost in each other and in each other's arms. She got goose flesh as she saw how utterly happy the Doctor could be before he buried his face and beaming eyes in the crook of Rose's neck and shoulder. When they started to kiss again, more passionately this time than in the Doctor's dream, she turned around and went up the path to the house, smiling to herself.

She took the bag with the things she had brought for the Doctor to his room before she unloaded Rose's small suitcase from the car and checked her in at the guest house, where she was given a lovely room in a quiet corner of the building. The Tylers weren't only popular in Britain, so she felt she deserved some privacy – even at a rehab unit like this that did not invite the public as a principle. But better safe than sorry, for Donna had noticed the curious glances she and Rose had received in town that morning. Thankfully, Rose had not bothered with any makeup and hidden her tiredness behind a pair of sunglasses. She knew, of course, how to deal with paparazzi.

Funny. This young woman did not come across like any of the other heiresses and sons-of their-father that quenched the public's thirst for scandal in the rags. Rose was a very kind, mature person, desperately in love with a man. Who happened to be half alien. And with whom, in another world, Donna herself had travelled.

She sat on the bed in her own room at the guest house, and picked up her mobile phone. There had been no calls or messages in her absence. Visitors were not encouraged to carry the devices around with them for the sake of the peace and quiet of the place, a notion that Donna appreciated very much. It was, after all, what she had come here for in a way.

Although she hardly knew Rose, and had not yet caught a glimpse of the Doctor's personality, she felt very happy for the two of them. She had seen both of them on their own, had sensed how miserable they had been. To see them in each other's arms …

If the Doctor really suffered from PTSD the two of them still had a long way ahead of them, and the fact that he had to adapt to life as a human would not make it any easier. She dearly hoped that their relationship was strong enough.

Life as a human.

Half alien.

She having a twin in a parallel universe, a universe that Rose had come from originally.

Travel in time and space.

And she – her twin – had done that. And not got the t-shirt.

As hard to believe as it was – or should be, rather – Donna could for some reason not find it in herself not to believe Rose. It was as if ever since she and the Doctor had stepped into her life there had been something, something which she couldn't quite grasp yet, that lent it all credibility, that didn't have her question any of it at all. Like she should, as a good scientist.

She would find out what that was.


	3. Part 3 Chapters 12 to 15

Part 3

Part 3

Chapters 12 - 15

Rose had really come. She was there, sitting next to him in the chair under the olive tree, sipping the water that was far too warm to be palatable. There was so much he wanted to tell her, and whenever his jaw felt heavy with the words he would either close his mouth or just say her name. He had told her repeatedly that he was sorry, so sorry for what he had done to her, but it was just as well that he didn't have any English because there was no answer that he could offer her to explain why he had done what he had done to her. Something was still amiss, and that was not just his night terrors. His journey was not yet completed.

But Rose was here, and Donna, too.

Presently, Rose opened her huge handbag and withdrew a little black notebook very much like the one he had taken from her desk in her study. A wave of shame washed over him, with hope for whitecaps – could it be the very notebook he had taken? He watched her open the notebook. She took several postcards from them and handed them to him. Even without his spectacles – which he had left in his room – he knew that they were the postcards he had sent her.

"Thank you," Rose said, adding something he did not quite catch. But from the dog-eared, worn cover of the notebook he guessed that she took the book everywhere she went, and with it his postcards. He had a story for her for each card, and he longed to tell them to her. But this was not the time, not yet. Nor was it the place. He returned the postcards, and she slipped them back into her bag, in the protection of her notebook. In the arms of her thoughts. He briefly wondered if she had got her portrait, the one he had sketched in Prague.

"Prague?" he asked, rising to touch her face to tell her what he meant.

Rose leaned into his palm, and nodded. He was brushing his thumb over her lips when Donna returned. She did not bring his wheelchair, but the pair of crutches he only used for short journeys instead.

"No, I—" he began when she pulled him to his feet with one expert grip. But there was no resisting Donna Noble, and before he knew it, he was balancing his weight on his forearms, palms and his good leg. Rose smiled an encouraging smile at him, willing him to believe she believed in him.

"Come on," she urged him, and her hand jerked briefly with the need to feel his hand in hers as they went back to the main building. It struck him how tired she looked, no, fatigued was the better word. How thin she was. Because of him. He had put her through so much, often enough hopeless situations, situations in which her life had been at risk; and now this. And she still did not leave his side. Just like this universe's Donna, even though – or was it because? – she did not know him.

Although his journey was not quite yet completed, he was very close to his destination. It was time, he thought, to take the last steps.

"_Molto_ _bene_, Rose," he said, "Donna." He flashed them an appreciative smile.

In the afternoon, Rose and Donna were sitting quite comfortably in the shadow of ancient trees by the small turquoise pool of the guest house. Rose was in a swimsuit, stretched out on her deckchair, fighting drowsiness. She hadn't been able to resist the pool, and the exercise and the excitement were taking their toll on her overtired body. Still, her mind was too busy to give in to her body's demands. The Doctor had looked skinnier than ever, and very pale, but all in all she had expected him to be worse. But then again she hadn't seen him at his worst – taciturn or terrified from one of his night terrors. Those, Donna had explained to her, were worse than your average nightmare, because when you woke you did not recall what exactly had disturbed you in your dreams. All that remained were the most intense emotions that left you drenched in sweat, panting and with a skyrocketing heart rate.

It had probably been one of these that the Doctor had experienced when they had found him that morning. Having nightmares was unpleasant, but it was your subconscious's way of dealing with the things you experienced. And when you woke you knew what you'd been dreaming about. But experiencing this kind of distress without knowing what it was all about must be terrifying. Little wonder then that he had retreated into himself the way he had.

Donna took off her sunglasses and turned to look at her. "He is a changed man already, you know," she said. "He was so open this morning, when he saw you. I've never seen him like this before. He really loves you."

Rose met her eyes. "Yeah. But I— I did something horrible back on that beach. I pushed him away, told him that he wasn't the Other. You know, the other Doctor who returned to my Earth with you." Rose laughed mirthlessly. "See, I'm doing it again. Speaking of _my_ Earth, when—"

"Nonsense," Donna cut her off. "It's where you are from, it is your Earth."

"Still," Rose insisted. "I shouldn't have said that."

Donna was quiet for a while before she said: "You probably shouldn't. But from what you told me I gather you had no choice."

"I did," Rose conceded. "And I chose him."

"Why?"

Rose stared into clear blue sky above her, lined with the wedges and crescents of dark foliage. "Because it's the one adventure he thought he could never have. Having just one life, getting old. With me. And it's me he wants to have it with. He asked me."

Donna swallowed. "That's—"

"But I'm so afraid I only chose him because I took pity on him."

"No," Donna said, thoughtfully. "If you'd chosen from pity, you'd have chosen the one who returned with me – the other me. I would not have been able to help him, not after his being separated from you again, would I?"

"No," Rose said, chagrined. "I guess you're right."

"And you do love him. I mean, he's the same man, split in two. Same memories, same personality."

Rose hesitated before she nodded. She didn't have it in her to tell Donna that the Doctor shared her personality, too. Her memories. She would leave it to the Doctor to decide if he wanted her to know about the metacrisis.

"You should have seen the two of you," Donna added. "You're so wonderful together. So – beautiful. So right. And the way he kissed you—"

"Yeah," Rose smiled, blushing. "Yes. I do love him."

"Well, then."

Having nightmares and only knowing you've had them, without remembering what they were upon waking … despite the warmth, gooseflesh grew on her skin. She wouldn't wish that on her worst enemy. Rose was contemplating Donna's words in the shelter of her sunglasses when she dozed off.

"Does that mean, though," Donna mused, "that the Other is alone again? That the me over there left him?"

Despite her sleep-addledness, Rose took in Donna's words, and for a moment she wondered if those had been genuine questions. And all of a sudden, she understood. The Other was alone again. A Time Lord's consciousness in a human's brain was not meant to be. And of course, the Doctor knew that.

Rose opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again. She turned her head to find Donna looking at her. She pushed her sunglasses up into her hair. "She wouldn't have left him without kicking and screaming," Rose eventually offered.

Donna merely nodded. "If she's anything like me, I can believe that. But it doesn't really make me feel better."

Rose looked at the sky again. There was nothing as pathetic as a dog chasing its own tail, and that was what she was feeling right now. "And then I've always thought time travel gave me headaches," she added, having explained herself to Donna.

Who laughed, and sat up. "And it's not going to help the Doctor. He'll have to open up to us—you—"

"Yeah, but that's the tricky bit," Rose said. "And I wonder why he wants to protect us like that. I mean, I've seen some of his demons, and I was there on the Crucible …" She trailed off.

Donna's lips turned into a surprised little O. "So," she began timidly, "how did you deal with it? What did … Donna do?" Rose could tell she still had difficulties wrapping her thoughts around the existence of a twin, despite her self-confidence. And referring to oneself in the third person didn't make things easier. And there was that question about Donna again. Rose couldn't blame her for that. She would want to know if she were her. But the truth was that she had no idea what had become of Donna. Rose swung her legs over the edge of the deckchair and dug her toes into the warm porphyry tiles, getting no purchase, of course. But it felt good.

"I don't know how Donna coped. We didn't get a chance to talk. Maybe the Doctor can help," Rose said, not quite meeting her eyes. And she knew that Donna knew that there was more to the story than she wanted to let on. She raised her head to look at Donna, but Donna for some reason decided to let it go for the moment, sensing her unwillingness to share. "I know that I would have done the same. I would have killed the Daleks." She did not add _again_. "Besides, it's my job. Protecting the Earth." She said this with a lot more conviction, not only to regain her composure, but also to discourage Donna from asking any more questions. Oh she had been so close to telling her everything.

Donna, bless her, seemed to accept this. "You know," she said, taking Rose's hands in hers, "this might be just what the Doctor needs. Sharing his experiences with someone he trusts. And—without wanting to flatter myself—the Doctor trusts me. Goodness, it still feels strange to call him that. I'd so gotten used to John."

"And I never got used to calling him John," Rose confessed, laughing, withdrawing her hands from Donna's. "But I think you're right. He trusts you. Completely."

"But?"

Damn, this woman was good at listening between words.

"But I don't think he would tell you. Words could never do him justice, or his experiences."

"What about you?" Donna asked softly, clearly crestfallen. "He would tell you?"

"No. I asked him, but he refused." Rose told him about her attempt to communicate with him telepathically.

"Are you telling me he would … _do_ … that to me?"

"It would be one way of finding out about Donna." How she hated herself for this already. Rose stood, mumbling something about getting ready for dinner, and left behind a decidedly stunned Donna.

The Doctor surprised the two women in more than one way that night. He had made an attempt at taming his hair—which was not quite easy since he was in bad need of a haircut—and he had strapped on the removable splint over the pair of jeans Donna had brought. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up to just below his elbows, and he was wearing his burgundy plimsolls—someone at A&E had rescued them and had them sent along with the rest of his things to the rehab unit. And he had hobbled all the way from his room to the terrace of the guest hose.

It turned out he arrived just in time before Donna and Rose left to meet him at the dining room. He smiled at them even when he was so tired he could hardly keep himself upright on those crutches. It had been a rough day at physio; the people there made him work hard, but now that Rose and Donna were there it only seemed half as bad. It was not as painful anymore, and something in his mind suggested that it was not just endorphins responsible for that.

"Hello," he managed, quite breathlessly. Was that what life without a respiratory bypass was going to be like?

"Doctor!" Rose rushed to his side, showering him with warm, comforting words. In the end he decided to just do what she gestured for him to do. He was too exhausted to resist; not that it had ever been easy to resist Rose Tyler.

He lowered his head to contemplate the dirty white caps of his plimsolls. Where had that come from?

They ended up having dinner on the terrace of the guesthouse, which offered just a gorgeous a view of the valley below, but with the added comforts of being more intimate and lacking that hospital atmosphere that had become oppressive. Apart from accommodating him with as much comfort as possible for his leg, no fuss was being made about him, and it felt good. Almost normal. If that's what being normal felt like.

"Water," he said as soon as they were seated. "Please."

The waiter obliged, filling his glass. The smile on Rose's face, he felt, made up for coming all the way up here. It was the one word she had taught him before—

He covered her hand with his, stroking his thumb along hers.

The waiter was talking to Donna in rapid Italian, probably reciting the menu for her. Donna replied, interrupted, asked, just as fluently and rapidly as the waiter. If he hadn't known she was English, he would have thought she was Italian. Brilliant Donna, spoke a foreign language like a native. Not at all like a Celt trying out her Latin in Pompeii. The Doctor smiled at that particular memory. A decidedly good one, too. Again, he found himself looking down, this time at the folds of the white linen napkin and the cutlery laid out in front of him. He ran a finger along the fork, missing the gaze the two women exchanged.

Donna ordered their dinner, and the waiter disappeared.

Again, he wondered why opening up felt so good all of a sudden, despite his better knowledge and therefore his intentions of protecting these two women. The very rational, reasonable part of his mind told him that there was no reason to protect them from himself. After all, Rose knew his dark side, and she could deal with it, had proven herself to be very compassionate and trusting, supportive in showing him the brighter sides of life. And Donna. She knew how to stop him when he went too far, her conscience replacing his. They knew how to deal with him.

He did not want to burden them with all that he was. He had asked enough of them already, the latest of which had got them here. Even if this was a lovely, balmy evening with a soft breeze and crickets and a picture-book sunset, the way here had been more than rocky. Because of him.

He opened and closed his free hand, flexing his fingers. Even if he apologised again, that would not even begin to explain things. And it would not in the least appreciate what these two wonderful women had done for him. His silence had to end, here and now.

He had to learn English. Again, and on the slow path. He still did not have it in him to draw on the presence that was the other Donna's mind within his.

"Donna, Rose," he said. Easy enough, names were. "I … want to talk. Help me. Please."

Although his mind was still buzzing with all the words and grammar he had learned that evening, the Doctor was exhausted enough from this day that he almost fell asleep before his head even touched the plump pillow. This had been a good day, and as he closed his eyes he could still feel the press of Rose's lips against his as she'd kissed him goodnight. More than anything it had been Donna's and her smiles at his request, and their subtle ways of returning words to him that had him convinced that he had made the correct decision in demanding his life back. For once he was unafraid of the darkness of the night.

He woke—four hours and twenty-seven minutes later, his timey-wimey Time Lord sense told him—because something was not as it was supposed to be. The moon-light filtered in through the slats of the shutters, and he could hear the crickets and other nocturnal animals rustle in the shrubbery beyond the French doors of his room. It took a while for the drowsiness to wear off, and he knew that that was not a good sign; it meant that he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep anytime soon. And then he noticed it, crawling along his limbs like a climbing plant, groping his skin for purchase, wrapping around his body covering his face, addling his brain with smells of earth and sap, twisting into his hair to finally settle in his brain. Although numbing his thoughts, it was a dull pain, more like an ache, very subtle, nothing that would force the air from his lungs or the tears from his eyes. It just was, but unrelenting.

The Doctor took a deep breath and clenched his fists, twisting the fabric of the linen covering his body.

It had returned, despite everything that had happened, and there was nothing he could do. He still would not accept pain medication—he had no idea what it could do to him, not when aspirin was lethal to a Time Lord—but he knew it wouldn't help anyway. This pain was not his body trying to communicate something to him.

He let go of the linen between his fingers. If he relaxed enough he would be able to go back to sleep. Sleep he needed so much, he had learned that in the few wretched weeks of being a human. It didn't mean that he had got used to it, but he had accepted it and learned to listen to this fragile human body.

He closed his eyes and took another deep breath, felt his conscious drift back into sleep.

Rose woke at once when the phone rang, even when its chirp was so very different from her beeper. Working for Torchwood had taught her to wake almost instantaneously. Which couldn't be quite healthy, and Rose compensated for it by taking her time waking up whenever she could. She would, however, answer the call in the dark, even when that meant she had to grope for the phone in its unfamiliar position to her left.

"_Signorina_, you must come quickly." The voice at the other end of the line spoke with barely concealed urgency. "John needs you."

John?

Oh. John.

Rose was instantly alert. "Coming!" She slammed the phone down, struggled with her thong sandals, grabbed her key and tore out of the room. If they called her in the middle of the night, it must be bad. Really bad. She had a feeling that now she would see how the Doctor really was.

They were waiting for her outside his room, which lay in complete darkness save for the slatted moonlight and the elongated rectangle of light from the hall that was painted by the open door. _They_ were the nurse on night-shift and a patient with sleep light enough to have noticed the noise issuing from the room next door. Apparently, he had been dreaming.

"I'm so sorry," Rose said hastily. "I'll see what I can do."

"I cannot calm him, _signorina_," the nurse said, more than anything else to warn her that she might not be able to either.

"I'll try."

It took Rose's eyes a minute or so to adjust to the darkness after the light in the hall. At first she was not sure what to make of the whole situation since the room was quiet, so very unlike what she had imagined. But then she saw the clothes and drawing utensils and toiletries littering the floor, the rumpled bed. It looked like a furious child had thrown a tantrum. She looked back over her shoulder at the nurse.

And then she heard the child gasp for breath, the way they did when they were so upset that through their sobs they forgot to breathe. Only this wasn't a child, this was the Doctor, and after that heart-wrenching sob came some hiccups and a soft whimpering sound. Rose carefully picked her way through the items scattered over the floor, looking around. In the darkest corner of the room, wedged in the small space between the outer wall and the nightstand, she found the huddled form of the Doctor. He was pressing himself into the rough stones of the wall as though he wanted to melt into it, to become stone and not ever feel anything again.

"Doctor?" Rose asked softly. She did not want to upset him any more than he already was, even when her instinct told her to drop to her knees and draw him into her arms. So she just knelt in front of him. "Doctor, it's me, Rose."

After what seemed like minutes, his hand dropped limply to the floor. Rose reached out to touch his fingers, and when he didn't flinch away, she slipped her hand into his, and squeezed it. To her surprise, his fingers closed gently, carefully around it.

"Doctor?" She drew their hands to her chest and moved to sit down next to him. There was just enough room for her to squeeze into the narrow corner next to him.

Rose was quite surprised as he responded to her immediately. He let go of her hand and turned so he could rest his head on her chest and hold her. She wrapped her arms around him, and kissed the top of his head, inhaled the scent of his tousled hair deeply. Slowly, he relaxed, and his breathing became even.

"Phone," the Doctor offered eventually, "I … no phone for Martha. Or Jack."

Rose rested her cheek in the spot she had kissed. Relief washed through her. If he knew—remembered what had filled his dreams that surely must be a good sign. At least it was not a night terror. Or was it? You could never be sure with a Time Lord.

"They don't need a phone, Doctor," Rose said, running her hand up and down his upper arm. "It's all right. They don't need it."

"But … help," the Doctor withdrew from her arms to look at her. Rose hadn't realised her heart was in her mouth until she saw the genuine alarm in his wide, tear-swollen eyes. All she wanted to do was draw him into her and tell him sweet nonsense and that everything would be all right. However, she decided that bluntness was what he needed, what would be most likely to rouse him from his reality for good. He clearly had not quite realised that this had been a dream. "Doctor, listen to me." She cupped his cheeks to make sure that she really had his full attention. "They don't need a phone. There is no Martha or Jack in this world. They're not here."

"No?" Doubt laced his voice, but it seemed to register with him where he was. His eyes drifted around the room, to eventually settle on hers once more.

"No," Rose confirmed.

The Doctor threw his arms around her and drew her into a crushing embrace. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It was just a dream."

"It's so real," the Doctor said softly.

"Yeah, I know," Rose sighed. She pressed her lips against his ear, the only spot of his skin she could reach with her lips. "Come on, let's get you back to bed."

She told Donna about the dream at breakfast. It was only then that she noticed how very shaken she still was. "I've never seen him like this." She met Donna's eyes, but not to seek for help. Compassion, maybe. Understanding. She nibbled at her pastry without really appreciating the velvety chocolate filling. "I so wish I could help him. Take those dreams away."

The Doctor's schedule was so busy that day that Donna decided they would not spend another day by the pool, but go exploring instead. Rose was very grateful, since she hadn't had an easy life for goodness knew how many months, and she needed to get away from it all for a day, to take her mind off things without having a bad conscience. She was going to need a lot of strength.

"There is something we could try, but ultimately it will take time for the dreams to disappear. He'll have to overcome whatever it is that disturbs him so," Donna told her, guessing from what little Rose had told her about the Time Lord's life that this was only the tip of the iceberg.

"And what's that?"

"Well, next time he has this dream I suggest you stay with him," Donna offered. Subconsciously, she had slipped on her lab coat, sounding more formal and careful than up till then. Rose was very comfortable already in Donna's company, but talking about something as intimate as this was quite new and early on in their friendship.

"Sleep with him," Rose said as matter-of-factly as she could, tearing off a bit of her puff pastry.

"Well, not in that sense, no," Donna said, gentle laughter in her voice. "Spend the night. I have a feeling it's your company he needs. The reassurance that you don't blame him."

"Which," Rose murmured, "I've already shown him so very subtly on that beach."

"No, no, love," Donna cut in. "I don't think that that's got anything to do with what happened last night. It was about those two friends of yours, wasn't it? How he wanted to make sure they're safe?"

Rose met Donna's eyes more evenly this time. And nodded. "I'll do that."

Rather than go back to Florence, they preferred zooming through the hills of the Chianti in their little car, stopping whenever they found a spot they liked. They found a market in one of the bigger villages that perched on the hills overlooking the dark, cool forests and vineyards. It didn't take them long to pick out fresh bread, some cheese, olives, grilled peppers and fruit. A couple of miles down the road they found a picnic spot where they had lunch, and for a while they ate in companionable silence, sipping water from the bottles they had brought.

"How long did you say you have been learning Italian?" Rose asked, having spent quite some time wondering about how good Donna's Italian was. She had not only got what she wanted at the market, but she had also exchanged a couple of pleasantries and jokes with the stallholders. The only thing Rose had been able to do was accept the bags and watch from the hiding-place that were her sunglasses.

"I took my GCSEs in it, but dropped it afterwards. Granddad was furious when I gave it up for sciences," Donna said, and, with a twinkle in her eye, added: "Can you imagine the glee with which he gave me the voucher for this learn-a-language holiday last Christmas?"

Rose smiled. "Good old Wilf. Your Italian is actually quite good."

"You've met him. I shouldn't be surprised," Donna murmured. "What about my mother? Is she—"

Rose fished a grilled pepper out of its marinade of basil oil and _balsamico_ to drape it onto her slice of bread. "She … she didn't die. I found the obituary. I'm sorry."

The ghost of a smile flitted across Donna's lips. Rose could only guess that this Donna's relationship with her mother had been warmer. Maybe it also accounted for why this Donna's life was so very different.

"Yeah, well it's been a while," Donna said bravely.

It was in the afternoon when they returned to the rehab unit, just when the day was hottest and everyone retired to their rooms or a shady place for a nap. Donna decided to join the Doctor under his favourite olive tree, and read a book. It was the only time of the day when the Doctor was able to sleep without having to dream. He had looked positively exhausted that morning, obviously he had been unable to go back to sleep after Rose had left. When she arrived, he had already drifted off to sleep, even when his lower lip stood out in a tense pout to mirror the deep lines on his sweaty brow. Her gaze drifting down, Donna noticed that his hands, too, were clenched. Was he dreaming again?

She drew the chair closer to him, and sat for a while, the book resting in her lap unopened. But rather than becoming restless, the Doctor relaxed visibly, first his brow became smooth, then his hands and lips opened in sleep.

"What is wrong with you?" Donna whispered.

She had read a chapter and a half when she felt she was being watched. Donna looked up and found the Doctor looking at her with an odd mixture of expressions on his face. He looked as though—and a shiver ran down her spine at that thought—she were dead, so sorry he looked, but also very affectionate and smiling. Was that it? Was the other Donna dead?

"Yes and no," the Doctor replied.

Donna dropped her book. She must have asked her question aloud. "What's that supposed to mean? You're either dead or you aren't." She recoiled at the anger in her voice. The Doctor reached down and returned the book to her. "Sorry. Thanks."

"Did Rose tell you?" he asked.

"She did not tell me what happened to the other Donna," she replied. Gosh, but that man was picking up a language fast.

"I had to …" he was searching for the right words. "She does not remember me. I'm so sorry. I had to." He reached out for her hand, and because Donna was still taking it in, she let him take it.

"You wiped her memory?" she asked.

The Doctor nodded gravely. He was still holding her hand, brushing his thumb over the freckles on its back.

From the bits and pieces Rose had told her about travelling with the Doctor Donna had a fairly good impression that it must be an extraordinary, overwhelming experience, something that was hard to grasp unless you just let its wave take you with it rather than wash over you. Or it was what the Doctor usually did, leaving it to others to stop for a minute and tug at his collar to make him surface and take a steadying breath. The things they had seen Donna couldn't even begin to imagine, horrid things judging by what Rose had told her about the Daleks and the Crucible. But as always, there must have been wonderful things as well, there always were. And that he had taken away from her? Experiences that she could not only relive in her memory, but experiences that had also shaped her personality?

He was right. In a way, the other Donna was dead, even if she was still alive.

"Why did you have to do that? Rose still has her memories after all," Donna asked.

"I … well …" Again, he was lost for words. She could sense he wanted to offer her an explanation, but this time his vocabulary was failing him. She also had a feeling that he hadn't taken the other Donna's memories without pondering it at length first. He had had his reasons. And she knew, that just like for Rose, he had made a decision for her, too, decisions in which neither of them had had a say. With which they would have to live. Not that the other Donna would mind, she didn't know anything, Donna thought sarcastically. Which did not make it all right. But Rose should have had a say. For the first time, Donna really understood the younger woman.

He held her gaze, and the warmth and relief in his brown eyes told her she had done the right thing. Even when all she wanted to do was grab him by his skinny shoulders and shake him and scream at him and rant at what he'd done to them. To the people he loved.

Donna drew in a deep breath to swallow her anger. These decisions had not been made by this man in front of her. She mustn't forget that. Those were the decisions of a man who had comfortably returned to a universe that was sealed off from this forever. "Don't you worry about that, Doctor. You don't have to tell me now."

"Thank you."

And then: "Donna, can I show you something?"

He did not use his wheelchair anymore, and he had learned very fast how to move around on the crutches, so Donna did not have to slow down for him; on the contrary, towards the end of their trip she had trouble catching up with him. He had led her to his room, where it was comfortably cool and dim, and where he kept his drawing things. The room was spotlessly tidy, nothing remained of the battlefield he had turned it into on the search for Martha's mobile.

The Doctor opened his sketchpad and flipped quickly through pages filled with faces and landscapes and devices—too quickly as though Donna could catch a proper glimpse of any of them. She decided she would ask him about the drawings later, after he had shown her what he wanted her to see.

When he had found what he was looking for, he laid the pad on the table in front of them, and sat down for the benefit of his leg. Donna drew the pad towards her. A figure was lying on his back, it was a man, no, it was the Doctor himself, and his whole, tense body was overgrown with the stems and leaves of a climbing plant. His face was twisted with pain, and he had even added tears to his eyes and cheeks.

"In my sleep," he offered, drawing the pad towards him to close it, "it's not a dream. It's pain when I don't dream."

Donna turned to lean against the edge of the table. "It's what you felt until I came to sit with you, isn't it?" she asked softly.

The Doctor's eyes lit up. "Yes! Yes, yes!"

Donna found her in her room at the guest hose. Life had caught up with her when Pete had called her about a project she had been working on for Torchwood before she had left helter-skelter to find the Doctor. So instead of sleeping away the afternoon, she had bounced ideas off each other with Pete. Naturally, they had also talked about the Doctor. "Take as long as you need down there, d'you hear me?" Pete advised her before he rang off.

"Sorry about that," Rose said, snapping her mobile shut. "That was work." Donna seemed a bit surprised at that—who expected Rose Tyler actually to have a job?—but she covered it quickly, professionally. It was what alerted her. "Donna, what's wrong?"

Donna told her about the Doctor's drawings.

"Phantom limb pain," Rose offered immediately. "He shared a telepathic link with this TARDIS, which is gone now. I can only imagine that's the reason for his pain."

Donna sat down on the bed next to Rose. The more she learned about this strange traveller the more she got drawn into his fascinating world, despite herself, despite all the darkness that was to be found there. Rose saw it in her eyes, recognised herself in the older woman.

"That makes sense. He was sleeping when I found him," Donna continued. A pang of bad conscience shot through Rose. She should have been with him instead of—no, there was no point in tearing herself up over this. "He seemed very tense when I arrived, but the longer I was with him, the more he relaxed. The more his pain subsided."

A flippant remark struggled to escape Rose's lips, but she pressed them together firmly and lowered her head to study her hands. The truth was she had no real explanation for what Donna had just told her other than that he had sensed the presence of a dear one and had relaxed because of that. It might have to do something with the fact that the other Donna had shared her mind with him, but Rose did not think that that was a topic Donna was ready for yet. "It must be your company; he sensed the presence of someone he's close to. A Time Lord's senses are more acute than a human's. He must have retained that sense of perception. It's—I'm sorry, it's the only thing I can think of," Rose said.

Donna nodded. There was something else she wanted to say, was debating whether to tell her, but then the moment passed and Donna chose to smile instead. "Will you give it a try? Share a bed with him?"

Rose laughed softly and nodded. She was more than happy to, trying to live with the memory had not make things easier.

Rose had opened the shutters to let in the fresh night air, and the cool moonlight bled into the warm light of the bedside lamp. Her room was filled with the sounds of crickets and the distant rush of the small river in the valley below.

She sat, propped up by cushions, in her bed after a nice evening of a long dinner shared with Donna and the Doctor—and English lessons for pudding—the novel she'd brought open in her lap. She hadn't read much of it; in fact, it was the same novel she had taken on her first journey of looking for the Doctor. Too many thoughts were flitting through her busy mind as though she could concentrate on or let herself be distracted by fictional peoples' dilemmas. She would read a paragraph or two only to notice at the beginning of the next one that she had no idea what was going on. Even now that she had found the Doctor, that she was with him, her mind could not relax. So she was watching the bats exploring the night sky through her open window.

When they had finally met again the previous morning, there had been no doubt that he was still in love with her, and that she loved him. Embracing him and kissing him, being embraced by him and being kissed by him had felt like finally coming come, like being complete. It had been so wonderful, and she had thought that this time nothing would come in between them anymore; no Dalek lying in wait, no insurmountable, impenetrable wall separating them.

Instead, there were her shame and her guilt about what had happened on Dålig Ulv Stranden before he had told her that he loved her—something the Other had been unable to bring himself to tell her, despite everything—before he had kissed her. The thought even brought tears to her eyes and for once she wished for this particular memory to be wiped from memory, hers as well as his. Donna's reassuring words surfaced then, and she knew that she was right, it only took her heart a while to accept that, to reconcile with her conscience.

Then there was also the fact that she had changed, she had become older and more mature, more Rose. After that first time to Dålig Ulv Stranden she had put all the energy of mourning into building a new life; into getting used to being a famous daughter, even when she had no idea what she was supposed to be famous for other than being her father's daughter, and not even that was something she knew anything about. A life with Jackie as a single mum had forged their relationship into something that was more of a friendship than being mother and daughter, and so she had gone about building a friendship with Pete. She loved him dearly, but there was something that kept her from calling him dad. Maybe it would still take some time, until one day she would be able to do that. As for the being famous part, she had learned to deal with the media, and she had put her status of being Vitex heiress to good use to raise awareness for charities, and she chose well the appearances she was expected to make at public events. She had no intention of ending up on page three.

Until she had brought home the Doctor. But that had also been dealt with, this time with the help of some strings Pete had pulled. It had been the only time when she had taken advantage of being powerful.

And then, of course, there had been her work for Torchwood, together with Mickey and Jake and Pete. She liked to call it Pete's Torchwood to set it apart from the organisation Yvonne Hartmann had turned it into in another world. It had been a joy and a relief to learn what it had become under Jack's guidance; a powerful ally for the Other, even when she had a feeling he still didn't quite trust them. She couldn't really blame him for that, but he had to move on. And she dearly hoped that the Other would find someone who could make him see, in more than just this regard.

So ultimately, it all came back to the Doctor. To her Doctor—she didn't much like sounding so possessive—a man she knew and yet did not. Seeing him like this, tormented by his demons and cut off from the comfort of the TARDIS made her wonder who this man was, or who he had become in the years away from her, travelling with Donna and Martha. She had only caught a small glimpse of him before—

A knock on the door woke her from musings. It was the Doctor, ready for bed in his boxers and t-shirt under the thin hospital robe, crutches and removable splint and all.

"Hello, it's me," he said, more cheerful than he really was. She still knew him well enough, she decided, as she opened the door for him. They—well, Donna and herself—had decided that he spend the night in her king-size bed rather than the narrow one in his room, and had notified the nurse and doctor in charge. Rose stepped aside to let him in.

Once she had closed the door, he hobbled towards her and bent down awkwardly on his crutches to kiss her. "Thank you for doing this for me," he said, breaking the kiss and resting his forehead against hers.

Rose smiled. The situation was awkward at best, particularly when they had already shared a bed, so she decided to follow his lead. She pulled back to cup his cheeks. "What can I do? I love you."

It was the first time she had said the three little words since the worst day in their life. She had not returned them to him when he had whispered them to her, over the joint murmuring of the sea and the wind and the roaring of the blood in her ears. All she had been able to do was look for the echo of the words in his gentle warm eyes, and kiss him with all she was worth, to make up for the words that were choking her.

The Doctor swallowed. "It's the first time you said that to me."

I would have written to you, was what Rose wanted to reply. But she had heard enough _I'm sorry_'s, and this wouldn't lead anywhere, not tonight.

"I love you, too," the Doctor said instead, sensing her uneasiness. Again, they closed the distance between them to kiss, and as they were about to deepen it the Doctor shifted his weight onto his good leg and let go of the crutches. They clattered on the hardwood floor as his arms went around her.

Rose could have stayed in his arms like this all night, losing herself in their kisses, but his body shifted and she felt his discomfort. Standing up for a long time was still not a good idea, despite all the progress he was making. She broke the kiss, and pulling his arm around her shoulders she led him to the bed, on which he sat gratefully. He took off his robe and opened the Velcro fasteners to get rid of the removable splint for the night.

Rose slipped into the bed next to him, putting the book on the bedside table. She didn't bother with the sheets, since it was still too hot for them. Then, with Rose lying half on top him, they kissed again, more comfortable this time, and therefore more passionate, remembering which swipe of the tongue, which flick, which nib, which brush delighted the other, made them sigh, hum and moan, their fingers tangled in each other's hair. Rose felt the leg she had draped over his good one slide to rest between his legs at one point, and he kept it there with gentle pressure from his injured leg, which he had brought up as he had turned into her body. Yet it was all about kissing each other, their hands never straying below the collarbones. It was enough for them for now. There would be plenty enough time to rediscover each other's body later.

Having broken the kiss to catch their breath at some point they must have fallen asleep. Rose raised her head from where it had been resting on his shoulder. The bedside lamp was still on, and so it took her bleary eyes a while to get used to the brightness. The Doctor was sleeping, and from what she could tell from his face it was a restful, relaxing sleep. All the tension was gone from his face, his brow was smooth, no crinkles around his eyes, his lips slightly open, still deliciously flushed from their kisses. Just like her own. Rose smiled. She could not feel the tiniest knot of tension in his body.

Donna was right. Company—or rather snogging, but that wasn't what she had meant—was the best cure for his kind of phantom limb pain. And until now, it also seemed to prevent bad dreams. She rose, disentangling herself as gently as she could, to close the shutters. Free of her weight, he turned to lie on his side. Rose slid into bed next to him again, pulled up the sheets against the chill, switched off the light and moulded her body to his like she was used to—in his sleep, he welcomed her by wrapping his arms around her. Soon enough, she fell asleep again.

"Ah, there she is," he said, smiling over the rim of his tea cup as he saw Donna negotiating her way towards their table. "_Buon_ _giorno_, Donna!"

His bad leg rested between Rose's under the table, and she nudged him gently with her left knee. Leave the poor woman alone, the gesture said. It's awkward enough as it is. Remember last night when we suggested that you stay at my place. Yet he could not help himself, and he flashed her the brightest of grins.

"Dare I ask how you slept?" Donna asked when she sat down to join them for breakfast. There was something playful in her tone that told him she knew. Donna was special, no matter which universe.

"Wonderful! Like a—"

"A baby," Rose offered.

"Yes, like a baby." He was about to tell her more when a movement behind her caught his attention. "Hold on," he said, craning his neck to see what it was. Donna and Rose followed his gaze towards the French doors that opened on the guest house's terrace. A petite dark-haired woman was stepping from the shadows of the indoors. She was being followed by a girl on crutches, whose long dark ponytail swung from one side to the other in time with her hobbling.

"No, it can't be," the Doctor whispered. "No, no, nononono. And yet—Chiara?" When the girl looked into his direction he was sure it was her. "Chiara!" he cried, standing.

"John!" she replied, her voice catching in a squealy-girly way. She hobbled over to them as fast as she could with all the tables and chairs on the terrace. But even in hospital, she had already been very clever with the crutches, and very fast. Before he knew it, she was wrapping her arms around his middle in a fierce embrace. "John!" she repeated, followed by a stream of rapid Italian.

He returned the embrace, wrapping his arms around her skinny form, pressing a kiss on the crown of her head. "Hello, little one," he said. It was so good to see her again. He had had no chance to say good-bye to her, the only one, it had seemed at the time, who was ready to accept him for who he was, without demanding anything in return, nothing at least, that he wasn't willing to give.

"How are you?" he asked.

She withdrew from him, gratefully accepting the crutches Donna had picked up for her. "You can speak after all!" she said, surprised, and in flawless English, too.

The Doctor smiled. "I'm still learning. You speak English."

"Yes, my dad's Scottish," Chiara replied, and, turning to the petite woman who had come up to their table she said, "and this is my mum, Nina. She's Italian."

"Hello," the Doctor said, genuinely glad. Somehow he'd had the idea that Chiara had no one, just like himself. Which probably had been part of the affinity he'd felt for her. "Nice to meet you. I'm the—John. I'm John."

"_Piacere_," Nina replied.

"And this is Donna," the Doctor went on, "and Rose."

Chiara smiled warmly, knowingly. "Rose Tyler."

"That's me," Rose said, slightly uncomfortable.

"He drew lots of pictures of you," Chiara offered. "Back in hospital. Of you, too," she said, not wanting to exclude Donna. The waiter arrived with Donna's cappuccino, and in next to no time there were enough chairs to accommodate Nina and her mother.

"Is that so?" Donna said, glancing at him shrewdly. The Doctor felt the heat rise in his cheeks, uncharacteristically, and he rubbed his neck.

"Yeah, well," he murmured.

"Chiara has spoken so much of you," Nina said, coming to his rescue. "So we decided to come and visit you. I'm not sure this is what I expected."

"It's because of Rose, mum," Chiara said, pouncing on the orange juice the waiter brought for her.

Nina pushed a strand of her hair behind her ear and sipped her coffee. "Before you ask why Chiara was alone," she began.

"Oh, no, nonono," the Doctor said, making a calming gesture, "you don't have to."

"Yes, I do, because I don't want you to think I am a bad mother," she said. Her English was remarkably flawless. Maybe she had not spent much time living in Italy. "Chiara was staying with a friend when she broke her ankle. Her father and I were travelling and we only got back the day you left the hospital."

"What about your friend?" Rose asked softly. "Didn't she visit you?"

A shadow fell over the girl's face, and she shook her head. "No."

"Well, um, Nina, Rose," Donna said, "what about a little walk?"

Thank you, Donna, the Doctor thought. The three women left and he was alone with Chiara. She followed them with her eyes, waving at her mother when she turned around to see if her little girl was all right. He waved, too, and smiled reassuringly.

"Can I have one of these?" Chiara asked, indicating the chocolate croissants in the bread basket.

"Help yourself," the Doctor replied gallantly, putting to use his dinner-time vocabulary. He finished his tea, and picked up some fruit from his _macedonia_.

"Rose is even more beautiful in reality than in the photos," Chiara said between two mouthfuls of croissant.

The Doctor smiled. "Yes, she is."

"Are you all right now?"

"Not yet, but I will be," he replied, touched by her concern. But he also sensed that she was beating about the bush, the darkness that had touched her earlier was still a powerful presence. "What about you?"

But Chiara replied with a question of her own. "Why didn't you speak in hospital?"

The Doctor sighed. Trust a child to lay her finger in a sore point. "I couldn't. I've seen and done some terrible things. But I'm better now. Because of Rose and Donna." Hopefully she would leave those things be and talk about Rose or Donna instead.

"Who is Donna?"

"She is my best friend," he said without thinking. "She's like a—a, you know ..."

"A sister?"

"Yeah."

After a spoonful of fruit he asked, brow furrowed, "What's the other one?"

"Brother."

"Right, must remember that. Do you have a brother?"

Chiara shook her head, ponytail swinging. "No sister either." She finished her orange juice. "And no best friend," she said in a small voice, and when she lifted her chin to meet his gaze, her eyes were brimming with tears. She had been brave so long. "We were playing in the park, with some other kids. We had found this … Dalek thing, you know, one of those things from a few weeks back. We thought it was broken," she began haltingly.

The Doctor froze. Daleks! Alive? Here?

"Mum said it was and wasn't at the same time. Like the bombs from the war that hadn't gone off." Tears had started to run down her cheeks now, and her words were ambushed by choky little hiccups. "It exploded. I—I was far away enough, I only hurt my ankle, but my friend—"

"Come here," he said, holding out his arms for her. She let him draw her into an embrace, and it was there that she really broke into tears. Chiara's skinny form was shaking with her sobs, and when she seemed unable to calm down he felt tempted to reach out with his thoughts, but instead he just held her and, in his native tongue, whispered calming, comforting nothings to her.

He was comforting himself as much as the girl. Did the Dalek terror never end? How could that have happened? Why hadn't the Dalek been cleared away? Its wreck must have been hidden, and the children had found it, thinking it a wonderful secret game. And you couldn't blame them.

He shooed the waiter away with a dark look, and smiled reassuringly at Nina when she reappeared on the terrace with Donna and Rose. Donna mirrored the mother's shock and concern, but Rose pulled them away, suddenly remembering something they hadn't seen yet.

"You have slept with him before," Donna pointed out casually as they watched Nina return to the guest house.

"Yep." Rose released the plosive like the Doctor would: explosively.

"And not in the way I meant."

"Well, what did you mean?" Rose replied, turning to look at her, tip of her tongue between her teeth.

"Oh, come on!"

"We didn't sleep with each other last night, if that's what you're getting at," Rose said, a twinkle in her eyes. "He was relaxed, and he slept like a baby."

"Not that it would be any of my business," Donna pointed out. Still she felt stupid for having assumed that the Doctor and Rose had not slept with each other. It was in their body language, and in their eyes. Rose and Donna had been walking without really paying attention to the direction, and they ended up at the deserted pool. They sat on the deckchairs, staring at the smooth surface of the turquoise water.

"They say sex is good pain relief." Donna couldn't help herself. The words had slipped out before the order to shut it had reached her lips. "Oh shut up, Donna."

"No, it's okay," Rose said, smiling. "It's actually kind of sweet."

"Yeah, and all I wish right now is for the ground to swallow me up."

"Don't be silly. Actually, we've had this conversation before, you know," Rose began with a wistful smile. "Not in so many words, of course. But I didn't answer you then. It choked me up. It hurt too much. And I had to focus."

"What was happening?" Donna asked softly.

"Someone was meddling with the time line by making you turn left instead of turn right one day. Consequently, you never met the Doctor, and he was killed on Christmas Day, drowned he was. The world became a different place without him," Rose explained. "He saved the world so many times, never asking for anything in return, not even a simple thank you. Anyway, because you made the right decision you were able to stop the Doctor. That is why you are the most important woman in the universe."

Donna had been listening intently, and she felt it hard to understand that a simple decision as that could change everything. She had heard the story about the butterfly beating his wing in one part of the world and causing a terrible storm in another, but she had never really thought about it. "That's the Donna in your world. But that's not me," she said, smiling sadly.

"Yes, you are. That's why I came looking for you," Rose protested.

"Right, and I went and ran him over," Donna snorted.

"He could have been run over by someone else and be dead now," Rose argued. "Don't you see?"

"I'm trying," Donna said seriously. She took a deep breath, willing it to make the decision whether she should tell Rose about the other Donna. Then she fiddled a bit with her wedding band, Mark's ring, and decided in the moment Rose opened her mouth.

"I've been wondering where he left all his things," she said. "He had done quite some travelling when you – when the accident happened. He couldn't have travelled without anything. He took money and some other things when he disappeared."

Donna was almost grateful that Rose had taken the decision from her hands. So much for the most important woman in the universe. "He looked well-groomed enough, after a hot day in the city, anyway."

They climbed the stairs that wound through the shrubbery that separated the pool from the terrace above. The Doctor and Chiara had gone into a huddle, each of them pencil in hand, the Doctor's brow furrowed in concentration, licking his upper lip. He was wearing spectacles, the same horn-rimmed, rectangular kind Rose knew so well, and which according to Donna Chiara had helped get for him.

When Nina saw them, she left the shady spot at the wall that separated the terrace from the olive grove below. She had wrapped her arms around her slim form, but she was smiling. "John is such a wonderful man," she began, looking at him. He was running his hand through his much too long, and therefore even unrulier, hair. "Chiara has so blossomed out in his company. Now I know why she wouldn't stop talking about him."

"Yeah," Rose nodded, a tad too wistful, Donna thought, "he does have that effect on people."

Donna had told her and Nina everything she knew about the Doctor and Chiara and their days in hospital, and Rose had been quite alarmed – just like her – about the episode with the nightmare. But Nina had also painted them a picture of the events in the park, so they knew what this was all about. It had cast a different light on that particular night's events. Chiara had gone and helped herself by helping the Doctor. Donna still found the courage and self-confidence of the girl very impressive.

"She told him about the accident," Nina said. She met their eyes. "She wouldn't talk about it to me or anyone else. I'm glad we came."

"What are they doing?" Donna wondered, craning her neck.

"Chiara teaches him how to read and write," Nina said, brushing that strand back behind her ear. "I hadn't realised he had hurt his head quite so badly."

Rose and Donna exchanged a quick glance. Neither had they, but then this was probably the Doctor in protective mode. "The brain is still a mystery to us," Donna offered. "But he is recovering quickly. Quite brilliant, he is."

Nina was wringing her hands. "Do you mind if we spend the day?" she asked.

"Not at all," Donna said, delighted.

"There are some errands we have to run in the city," Rose jumped in. "If you stayed here, we'd be ever so grateful, because we could both go, speeding things up a bit."

Nina smiled warmly. "It would be a pleasure."

So after Rose had given Nina the keys to her room – just in case – they were once again zooming through the countryside, this time back to Florence. Rose was hiding behind a pair of sunglasses, and she had wrestled her hair under a hat. They decided to leave the car parked in a small square and to embark upon their search on foot. Other than the street and the spot in which the accident had happened, they had no clue of where to start their search. The Doctor had been unable to help; he did not recall the name of his hotel, and had not brought a book of matches or card. "You can see the _Campanile_ from the window," was all he had been able to offer. Which, considering that the bell towerof the _Duomo _was one of the city's most famous landmarks, visible from all parts of the city, was pretty inconclusive. So they decided to begin their search at the site of the accident.

There was nothing to indicate that an accident had happened there. Donna stood quietly for a while, contemplating the spot. Cars and scooters were parked in the kerb, wedged between were huge green rubbish skips that could swallow a man whole, with rubbish in bags and boxes beside those that were full to the brim. Donna wasn't sure what she had expected, certainly not a dark stain in the tarmac, but the fact that there was nothing, nothing at all was anti-climactic in a way, made the fact that her heart had been in her mouth seem ridiculous.

Rose looked beyond the kerb, at the buildings that cast their shadow into the quiet street, and those opposite, bright yellow in the late morning sunshine, their shutters closed against the heat. Under green awnings there were a small restaurant and a greengrocer's, a garage, and shoe shop and several other shops with their shutters firmly in place – closed for holidays they were. The street was quiet, swallows crying and pigeons flapping and the occasional scooter roaring through it being the only sources of sound to fill the street.

Donna looked up and down the street, quickly scanning the signs on the walls for the words hotel and _albergo_. There was one hotel, quite unprepossessing, tucked away next to a wide archway protected by old, oaken doors studded with the square heads of sturdy nails. She exchanged a quick look with Rose, who shrugged, and went to the narrow door.

They entered the cool smallish hall. Its dimness smelled of polish and stone floor, and from somewhere further down in its darkness they could hear the clatter of pots and plates and the news on the telly. Their arrival had not gone unnoticed, however, for they were greeted by a friendly dog. Donna tried not to be obvious as she hid behind Rose, who bent to pet the dog. The animal was soon followed by a stout matron, the proprietor of the place, and this time it was Rose hiding behind the broad back of Donna's impeccable Italian.

Donna exchanged some pleasantries with the woman, before she produced the Doctor's photo from her bag. "We are looking for this man, and we were wondering if you've seen him."

The woman slipped on the glasses that until then had been hanging on a chain around her neck, bouncing off her ample bosom as she moved. She took the photo from Donna to inspect it more carefully. "He's gorgeous, he is," she smacked her lips. "A bit thin, eh?"

"Yeah," Donna replied, "we're trying our best to fatten him up a bit."

"Is he your …?"

"Oh, no, we're not married, no," Donna protested. She leaned in conspiratorially. "I'm just his assistant. He's together with her," she said softly, pointing over her shoulder where Rose was entertaining the dog.

The woman's eyes went wide, then she grinned. "Lover's quarrel, eh?"

Donna decided to tell the woman the truth that she and Rose had spun for the purpose of their search. "No, actually, he was here for a doctors' conference and he had to leave quite suddenly. Bit of an emergency, really. We're looking for his luggage."

"Aha," the woman said, not quite buying Donna's story. Still, she asked for the date in question and looked it up in her records. "What was his name again?"

"Doctor John Smith."

"Oh English, are you? Your Italian is excellent," the woman offered. "Well, I cannot find a Doctor John Smith in the records, but I wasn't here that day. That was my good-for-nothing son. Sometimes he forgets to write things down. I'll ask him. I'll just be a minute." She disappeared with the Doctor's photo, and Donna and Rose could hear voices raised over those of the telly and the kitchen noises.

"And?" Rose asked.

"If this goes on at this rate, we'll be here all week," Donna muttered, putting her smile back in place as the woman returned.

"Come with me, my son gave him a room without writing his name down. He heard about the accident, but he never – oh well," the woman muttered. "We still have the doctor's bag, he didn't unpack before he left the hotel."

Donna and Rose looked at each other in disbelief, before they laughed and squealed softly with glee. The woman took them to a small luggage room and pulled the only bag there from the rack; at least the good-for-nothing son had bothered with a label with the date and room number on it. Rose unzipped the bag with unsteady fingers, and when she found a sketch pad with a picture of the TARDIS on top of all the other things the woman needed no more proof that Rose was who she said she was.

"Quite the artist, eh? For a doctor, I mean," she said, smiling.

"Yes, well, he needs to sketch for his research. Schematics. That's why he wants the bag back so badly," Donna replied. "How much do we owe you?"

"Oh nothing, nothing," the woman said, underlining her words with gestures. "He never used the room, and if my son is too stupid to rent out a room, then he's beyond help. The hotel will go to the dogs, but who cares. _Bambini_, eh?"

After they had thanked her profusely for her kindness, Donna and Rose hurried back to the little car, Rose gripping the handles of the black overnight bag firmly. "I can't believe this was so easy," she said, choking with excitement.

"Too easy," Donna muttered, but decided to continue on a brighter note, "what about we hang out a bit more? Florence has some wonderful shops, and I promised my guys to bring them something nice." She still felt Rose's uneasiness, and since she would have to leave in two days she wanted to make sure to leave Rose behind as confident as possible. She unlocked the boot for Rose to stow away the overnight bag.

"Great idea, then we can get something for Tony, too," Rose agreed.

When Rose and Donna returned, much later in the afternoon than before, laden with their shopping, his physiotherapist had told him that the muscles in his leg were strong enough to get rid of the removable splint – if the doctor agreed that the fractures had healed, but the x-ray would have to wait until the next day. That was after Nina and Chiara had left, kissing and hugging him time and again, making him promise to write – he could write now! – and come and see them when they were in England. Seeing Chiara again had made him realise how far he had already come, and while her story had broken his heart, it had also helped him. Not to redeem himself, but at least to offer her a shoulder to lean on and to listen to what the Daleks had done to people, to individuals, like Chiara, rather than the faceless crowd. It had not been easy, listening to the terror she had seen, yet at the same time he felt cleansed, in a way, if not forgiven.

He was in his usual place underneath the olive tree with the silver leaves. He had stopped reading the book he had taken from Rose's bedside table to stare up at them. They reminded him of home, and when he looked up into its silvergreen canopy, with the sun twinkling at him through its fabric full of holes he could feel the Earth move. The sensation was a faint one, not as strong as it used to be, but he could still feel it.

He sat up when he saw them coming down the path, his Rose, beautiful as ever, even when she looked tired and hot from a day spent in the city, and brilliant Donna. Her life was so different in this universe, being a Doctor Donna, with a real husband and a little son; and exceptionally good at Italian she was, too. A wave of gratitude washed over him, surprising him and bringing out his silliest, most boyish grin.

"Hello!" he said, in a tone to match his expression. He held out his hand for Rose to take it. It felt good to feel her hand in his, the sheer energy and warmth that she radiated.

"We've got a surprise for you," Rose said, smiling.

"Oh, do you! Well, let's see it," he replied, curious.

"It's in your room."

"Oh." His room. His dark, soulless hospital room, filled with pain and nightmares and cold. He struggled to stand with the help of his crutches – he'd be so glad to get rid of them tomorrow. "Oh, borrowed your book, I hope that's okay, quite good it is, too, but you haven't read much of it yet," he babbled to cover his disappointment.

Rose knew him too well. "Doctor, what's wrong? Don't you like surprises?"

"You know I do," he said, starting up the path, "just not in that room." He flashed her an apologetic smile.

"It's not very homey, is it?" Donna suggested. "And who can blame you? You've been in hospital for weeks. I'd go bonkers."

"But you work in a hospital," the Doctor pointed out.

"Yes, but it's not the same as being there as a patient."

"Mm, Martha never said," he mused. But then again, he had never asked, either. Too wrapped up in mourning Rose he'd been as though to stop and ask her, meaning to listen. He had destroyed half her life, and not only by sending her into physical danger. "Anyway, what's this that's a surprise?"

"It won't be much of a surprise if we tell you, will it?" Rose said, her voice betraying her excitement.

When they entered his room, he saw his black overnight bag on the neatly made bed, and his single heart skipped a beat. A sensation to unfamiliar, that he paused for second. He felt dizzy. His bag; they had gone and found his bag. He knew exactly what was in it. But he also knew what would not be in it, and it was all the harder to conceal his deep disappointment. He smiled bravely, continuing on his way, glad for the fact that Rose and Donna were behind him and couldn't see his eyes brimming with tears.

He knew that the TARDIS coral had been in the pocket of his trousers when the accident happened; he had slipped it back inside just moments before. But then they had cut the trousers – his blue Time Lord trousers with pockets that were bigger on the inside – off him in A&E, and that's where it must have been lost. Strangely enough they had returned the tattered remains of the garment to him, together with the rest of the clothes he'd worn, and his personal things. The book of stamps, two pencils, part of his money, a crumpled up train ticket (the one from Vienna Südbahnhof to S.M.N.), a book of matches from a restaurant, a lump of chocolate (he had failed to remember that his body radiated enough heat to make chocolate melt in his pocket), and the letter he had nicked from the table in Rose's hall had all turned up again, sealed into a separate, smaller bag.

But the TARDIS coral had not been among his personal things.

He leaned on the edge of the bed for support as he discarded the crutches, still feeling the women's presence behind him, but at a distance, and when he closed his eyes the tears in them spilled quickly and fell onto his hands. Having unzipped the bag in one fluid motion, he took out the sketchpad and the pencil case and the little black notebook and his sunglasses and his cheap specs.

"Ah, there they are," he said, tossing the cheap specs dismissively on the bed. Hopefully, they hadn't heard the tears in his voice. He slipped on the sunglasses and turned around with a flourish, slipping a grin into place that didn't need to reach his eyes.


	4. Chapter 16

They spent a quiet evening, Donna retiring early. As Rose went to her room with her to pick up a book – the Doctor was still reading hers and she finally felt in the mood to read something – Donna told her that she didn't think the surprise had been that good an idea after all. When Rose asked her what she was getting at, Donna said: "I'm not sure, but I think he wasn't letting on all of his feelings about that bag."

"I'm not sure I understand," Rose admitted, bewildered, accepting the book Donna was handing her. Bless her for her little travelling library.

What puzzled her even more was the sadness in Donna's eyes when she said: "As I said, I'm not sure. You'll have to ask him yourself."

Rose nodded, still unsure what to make of Donna's delphic speech. True, he had been a little more subdued than she had expected, and she had therefore even been a bit disappointed at his reaction. He had, however, seemed to be glad to have back the sketchpad and notebook, the contents both of which he had not shared with either her or Donna. But that was okay. If his drawings and writings had a cathartic effect on him, were like a diary, then they weren't even her business. He'd probably written the diary in Gallifreyan, which she couldn't even begin to understand anyway. So, what was it that Donna had been on about?

The Doctor was sitting in one of the wicker chairs on the private terrace of her room when she came, engrossed in her book. He wasn't turning the pages quite as quickly as she had seen him do before. The light was soft, yet bright enough to read by, and Rose stood there in the French doors just looking at him for a while before she stepped outside. The porphyry slabs were still warm beneath her bare feet.

She dropped her free hand onto his head and threaded her fingers through his hair before she dropped a kiss on the crown of his head. "Hi there," she whispered.

The Doctor just hummed, closing his eyes. His bad leg – minus the splint – was resting on the opposite chair, and she touched it tenderly for him to lift it so she could sit. He settled the leg in her lap. The scars stood out starkly, even against his lightly tanned skin, and she ghosted her fingertips over them.

"They'll fade," the Doctor said, closing the book.

"Just like the others will, given enough time," Rose offered, casting him a meaningful glance. The flame of the insect-repellent candle was reflected as a pair by the lenses of his spectacles.

"Will you help me," he said, "make them fade more quickly?"

Rose smiled, dropping both her hands to rest on his leg; on his strange – no, unfamiliar – warm skin. "How could I not? You were born in battle, I'm a weapon."

"Don't," the Doctor said, withdrawing his leg.

"I'm a destroyer of worlds just like you," Rose went on, undaunted, dropping her hands on his knees. "And I would do it again, as would you." She looked at him intently, raising one hand to touch his cheek. Oh, he was gorgeous in the flickering light of the candle. It captured his essence so beautifully, half his face bathed in gentle orange light, while the other half was cast in darkness, his eyes sparkling, reflecting the light.

"I love you," the Doctor said, turning his head to kiss the base of her palm.

"Quite right, too," Rose replied, tongue between her teeth.

"That's my line," he whispered, leaning towards her.

"Yeah? Come and get it," she said, letting her hand drift to rest on his chest, where she could feel his single heart begin to beat faster.

"I will."

And he did. He closed the distance between them, kissing her gently first, just lips pressing on lips, revelling in their softness, allowing his eyes to close. His fingers danced across her cheek, while the other hand was travelling along her bare forearm. Rose moved towards him, sitting on the very edge of her seat to put her free arm around his neck, to be closer to him, to his still unfamiliar but welcoming warmth. She parted her lips to tickle his with the tip of her tongue, to deepen the kiss, and he yielded with a soft hum, tracing his fingers along her neck, from her ear down to her collarbones, along it, across the thin strap of her dress. He tasted delicious of the strawberries that had been their pudding, and of himself, a taste so unique she had never forgotten it, not in all these years. He let her tongue take the lead for a while before he took over to reciprocate the caresses.

It came as a shock when he suddenly withdrew, a little breathless of course, but chuckling at the same time with joy. Rose straightened, feeling her heartbeat in her lips, wondering if they were as full and red as his.

"We are good kissers, aren't we?" the Doctor said, grinning breathlessly, madly-in-love.

"Brilliant, I'd say."

"The stuff of legends."

"Yeah, right," Rose laughed, sitting up. She patted her thigh for the Doctor to put his bad leg up once again, and after he had done so, they turned their attention to their books. Rose was absentmindedly stroking the Doctor's leg, upsetting the hairs on it only to smooth them out when she drew her hand back. The metronomic regularity of the movement had an oddly soothing effect on her, and before she knew it, she was engrossed in the second chapter. When she turned the page to begin the third one, she looked briefly up to find the Doctor gazing into the now unmoving flame, his thoughts obviously miles away. Sad didn't begin to describe the expression in his face. Forlorn was more like it, mourning.

Rose knew instantly that this was exactly what Donna had sensed in him earlier. The worst thing was that she did not know what she could do about it. Waiting for him to open up was tearing her apart, but at the same time she knew that asking him would either make him clam up or dismiss it with a joke. When she felt her eyes begin to fill she closed her book and gently nudged at his leg, which he withdrew absentmindedly.

She fled to the bathroom, choking her tears with her hand clasped firmly over her mouth, and even when she had closed the door behind her she tried hard to muffle the sobs that eventually got the better of her. At a loss of what to do, she turned on the shower and stripped off her clothes and stepped under the tepid jets in an attempt to let them wash away her tears. If nothing else, the rushing of the water would at least drown out her sobs. Soon enough, however, she felt the water work its magic on her, and she relaxed. It had been another long day, a good day except the anticlimactic surprise, and now the quiet desperation grew inside her like the Doctor's climbing plant of pain. She must not allow the tendrils to find purchase. She had the Doctor to look after. And this was his plant. Not hers.

She towelled her hair furiously once outside the shower, worked out knots with her comb, and returned to the room in the nude, unnoticed by the Doctor, who was still sat outside. After she had thrown back the covers, she put on her cream-coloured pyjama bottoms and the matching top with the thin straps. Then she settled down on the bed to read. She did feel better, also because she had washed off the day's grime, and she liked the scent of the soap her mother had given her: sweet, almost like chocolate, with a flowery note; warm and subtle.

Rose started when she felt the book being drawn from her fingers. Instinctively, she strengthened her grip on the book. Her eyes fluttered open in the brightness of her bedside lamp. The Doctor was in bed beside her – she hadn't felt his weight dip the mattress – prising the book from her fingers.

"It's late, Rose, let's go to sleep," he said softly, shadows nestling deep in his cheeks. He kissed her good-night tenderly, and she fell asleep again once she had settled her head on his shoulder, wrapping herself around him, drawn close by his arms.

-:-

He inhaled the scent of Rose's soap deeply, allowing his body to bask in her warmth, in the trust and love that she radiated and that managed to kill the climbing plant. When she was lying next to him, everything seemed just half as bad, and the pain that came with the separation from his TARDIS ceased to exist, because she had once looked into her soul, had carried the Time Vortex within her, unafraid, and confidently, oblivious to the power it gave her, which at once had made her pure and dangerous. The unconditional love she had for him. The eternal life she had encumbered Jack with. She still carried a tiny little spark of that within her, and she was using it just in the right way.

Donna had had the same effect on him, although she had never absorbed the golden essence of Time, she had been part of him, had shared – for a short time – the experience of being one with his TARDIS. Her presence must have woken the Other Donna's consciousness, made him remember and so alleviated the pain.

But he could not go on like this forever. Well, this short forever that being human meant anyway. What if something happened to Rose? Life would become unbearable, literally, now that the TARDIS coral was lost, his source of comfort when he was alone. He had been debating whether to tell her about the coral, and now he was glad he had not. And he had decided that he would not tell her. Never ever. There would be a way to deal with that once that day had come. No need to be even more of a burden to her than he already was.

He kissed her hairline, which was still slightly damp, closing his eyes to memorise her scent once again. He had not noticed her slipping inside and taking a shower, he had not even paid attention to the passage of time, but at one point he had felt the lack of her presence, and not because of the beginning pain, or because she had stopped sending shivers up and down his spine as her fingers raked through the hairs on his leg. Must be some atavistic human sense.

Sleep came easily enough, despite his loss, and he allowed his mind to drift into its realms, to give it and his new human body the rest they needed. If sleep meant lying like this with Rose, then it wasn't such an awful waste of time. Funny thing it was, too, as a Time Lord with as much time on his hands as he wanted, he had been afraid of wasting it by sleeping, and now that he was half-human with a limited lifespan, it seemed anything but a waste of time.

-:-

Rose was rudely awakened as the Doctor jumped out of the bed, breathing heavily, swallowing hard in an attempt to scream, but no sound came. Bleary-eyed at first, it was still dark outside – Rose propped herself up on her elbows to see what he was up to, and she jumped in alarm when his right foot got tangled in the mess that were their sheets and he crashed on the hardwood floor.

"Doctor!" she cried, scrambling across his side of the bed to help him, now wide awake. "What's wrong?"

He looked back at her, but in the darkness she couldn't see his face. He was panting, trying to get up and succeeding, making his way to the bathroom, tearing at his clothes as he did so. "Must, must get them off," he muttered, "they're burning, the fire, oh it hurts so much, get off! Off! Help! I'm burning!"

For a moment Rose didn't know if he was awake, raving, or still asleep, dreaming and acting upon the powerful images his Time Lord mind was conjuring up for him. When he finally managed to gather enough breath and strength it was his scream that shook her into action. She hurried towards him, helping him tear off the t-shirt and his pyjama bottoms. His skin was hot and clammy, and he was shaking all over.

"Doctor, what is it? What's wrong? Talk to me!" Rose cried, at a loss of what to do.

"I'm burning, he's burning me up! It hurts so much! Please make it stop!"

Rose grabbed him by the arms and pushed him under the shower, opening the taps as far as it would go. The Doctor gasped as the cool water came pouring down on him, and his agonised cries slowly faded into whimpers. His legs were folding, and Rose had to use all her strength to ease his dead weight down onto the floor lest he fall on the hard tiles. She sat down next to him, thoroughly soaked now, and pushed her hair out of her face. As she wrapped her arm around him, he once again turned towards her for comfort, and she drew him to sit between her legs.

"Make it stop, make it go away," he was crying softly.

"You are not burning, Doctor. There is no fire," Rose said insistently. "We're in the shower, there is no fire. Look at me!" She grabbed his jaw rather roughly and made him look at her. His dark eyes were wide with fear again, but she could feel him calming down. "It's just a dream, Doctor. You have to wake up. Can you do that for me?" She reached up to turn off the tap.

He just stared at her, debating whether to believe her or not. Rose pressed a kiss on his open mouth, but he didn't react. She called his name again, still she seemed unable to penetrate the fog of his dreaming, confused brain. So she slapped him, hard.

He blinked.

"There's no fire?" he asked.

"No, no fire," Rose replied, very relieved. She drew him into her arms once again.

"It was a dream."

"Can you tell me about it?"

He tried to explain to her what had terrified him so, but he was so shocked that time and again he slipped into his native tongue to relate the images of his dream. Rose decided to just let him talk, to go on, to get it out of his system. She caught enough to understand that it had something to do with the Master – whoever that was – and that he had died in the Doctor's arms, and that there had been a fire, obviously, but not meant for the Doctor. This Master had turned against him, defying him, jeering at him for what he had done. Something about Toclafane and the horror he had inflicted upon them. What he had done to those he loved.

Eventually, he stilled.

"I love you, Doctor," was all that Rose could offer. His descriptions, those fragments, had made not much sense to her. The only thing she knew was that this was most likely something that had really happened, and that it was haunting him. "No matter what, I will always love you."

He let go of her so he could look at her, and while the terror in his eyes had not yet entirely disappeared, there was something else now. "I—," he began, but Rose kissed him.

"Let's go back to bed. This is getting a bit uncomfortable."

She helped him up, asking about five times if his leg was all right, and when he replied the sixth time with an exasperated "Rose!" she shut up. It was only then that she realised that he was standing in front of her stark naked. Thinner than he had ever been, if that was even possible, but with the soft hue of a tan the Tuscan sun had given him. It had also, she noticed, brought out the freckles in his face. Rose reached out and touched his chest, to feel his single heartbeat. There was a moment, a brief instant of sparks, and he was about to say something, but then it was gone. She gave him her towel and disappeared to collect his t-shirt and pyjama bottoms.

"Rose!" the Doctor called softly as she left the bathroom once again to put on some dry things herself. He followed her to give her the towel, damp as it was, it was better than drying herself off with the small one. "Let me do this," he offered, shifting his weight to his good leg, dropping his things on the bed.

Rose just stood, watching him, watching his face as he pulled the wilful wet top off her, helped him by raising her arms above her head. He wrapped the towel around her shoulders and rubbed her down gently, before he moved, carefully, to get rid of her pyjama bottoms, hooking his fingers into the elastic that kept them on her hips. She stepped out of them, supporting herself by putting a hand on his shoulder, and let him run the towel up and down her legs. When he was done, he paused a moment, looked up at her, then dropped a gentle kiss onto her stomach.

Rose helped him to his feet, and for a moment neither spoke. "Thank you," Rose said, and stepped into his embrace.


	5. Chapter 17

AN: If you want to read the adult version of this chapter, you can do so at my homepage.

-:-

"Rose." The Doctor let go of her to trail his hands down her back until they came to rest on the curve of her waist. Rose took a half-step back, sliding her palms around and onto his chest. "Do you mind if we …" His voice trailed off, following his eyes as they wandered to and settled on the bed.

He was getting uncomfortable with her leaning into him like this. Rose took his hand and pulled him onto the bed with her. For a few moments they just knelt facing each other with only their hands touching. Rose wondered what to do next, for the air in the room was crackling with tension, but she could not quite tell if it was of an erotic nature, or something else entirely. If she went by his eyes, there was definitely want in them, mingled with the need to feel safe after the dream.

Rose laughed softly to herself. "You know, it's not as though this were the first time we did this," she explained, tip of her tongue between her teeth as she met his questioning gaze.

"No," he replied, smiling, and Rose moved to capture the laugh lines in the corners of his eyes with her lips, first left, then right, ghosting her fingers over the side she wasn't kissing. The Doctor kept smiling for her just like he used to, knowing how much she loved to do this.

"There," she whispered, "still the same." And added: "Just like I remember them."

The Doctor wove his fingers into her wet hair and pulled her towards him to kiss her gently, as if to thank her for what she had just said. Still her asked: "Can this just be about us?"

Rose nodded, even when she knew that eventually they would have to talk about the 'you' and 'I' part of them. But now was not the right time, now that both of them were quite vulnerable; now that the tension changed into something quite unambiguous. She leaned towards him to kiss him again, more deeply this time as his lips yielded once again her probing tongue. As she brushed it across the roof of his mouth he groaned and pushed her back into the pillows, one hand between her shoulder blades to support her. Their kisses became more urgent as it had become clear that this was not about seeking and giving comfort any more.

The Doctor trailed his kisses along Rose's jaw and she turned her head, began to nuzzle the spot below her ear. When she sighed, she could feel his smile tickle her skin. "Just like I remember this," he murmured, drawing the tip of nose along her cheek.

Rose closed her eyes, thinking that soon he would come across these things about her that were not quite the same, and she shifted beneath him. This had always been about him, the way he was and wasn't the same, and while that was alright, what with his trauma being so fresh still, so raw, Rose also knew that the time would come that would reveal the way she was and wasn't the same. This was the first step.

His fingers and palms and nails were roaming her skin, halting briefly when they found something unfamiliar, lingering to feel the slightly hardened texture in her side, on her hip, and the thin pale line that connected a spot below her hipbone and a mole in the middle of her thigh. His senses were acute enough to find those scars, when she herself could barely detect a difference in feel in most of them.

His skin was still very much like a pale starry sky, and unlike hers unmarred save for the pink scars in his leg. Its warmth, however, was still unfamiliar, even after the cold water that had washed away the dream and any scent that was not his. She inhaled him deeply, enjoying her homecoming. She cupped his prominent hipbone to still him as she mapped out his body with her free hand and her mouth, trailing the wetness of her hair in her wake to cool his skin.

"Rose, please," he muttered eventually, his voice breaking. "I need you so much."

And she let him, for the need was mutual. Even in its urgency, their lovemaking was gentle, slow, even. She wrapped her arms around him as he dropped his weight into the cradle of her body, revelling in his heavy heartbeat joining hers after they had driven each other to completion. His back was slick with sweat, but relaxed, and she turned to kiss whatever part of him she could reach with her lips, and they lay for a short while until he had to get up. The warm night air whispered over her equally wet skin, promising his return, and the sheet, when he pulled it over them, was deliciously cool and stuck to their bodies.

-:-

When Rose woke again it was to grey early-morning light and she shivered in its otherwise welcome comforting chill. As she turned her head she found that the Doctor had stolen the sheets and wrapped himself in them. He lay with his back towards her and he was breathing deeply as his sleep had finally become restful. Rose smiled. Normally it would have been the other way round, with him waiting for her to wake, watching her in her sleep, dreaming. She got up and although she had only meant to put on a pair of knickers and a t-shirt she decided to shower and get dressed to sit outside to watch the sky change colours.

Rose was tired and relaxed at the same time, a feeling she had not remembered in all the years of being without the Doctor, of getting by without sex. But she wouldn't be able to go back to sleep, and her restlessness would eventually rub off on the Doctor, and he needed rest so much more than she. The thought made her smile. It was so unfamiliar and unheard of, just like his warmth. But that, she had found when he had made love to her, was about the only thing about him that had changed. Maybe he had not talked quite as much as he had been wont to, but then again her attentions had always managed to reduce him to incomprehensible nonsense. He hadn't even commented on her scars. Working for Torchwood had taken its toll on her, but it had been only after the incident that had left her with this set that Pete had – despite himself, what with being her father, despite policy – decided to establish new safety protocols. Not only she had been severely injured. Mickey had suffered, too, and Louis, one of their team, had died two days after the attack, in Torchwood's own hospital, and despite the most advanced medical equipment and knowledge.

Rose closed her eyes against that memory. She, too, knew survivor's guilt and its devastating vice-like grip, knew that it was not easily overcome, even with counselling. It was about forgiving oneself, and while she had been coming to terms with it, despite the distraction that had been the Darkness, she had not quite reached that aim yet. And that was what had frightened her so on Dålig Ulv Stranden, because she had realised then that the Doctor and she were very much alike in that regard, too alike for comfort. How could she possibly take care of this troubled man when she herself was struggling with something quite similar? During the Darkness, her thoughts had been concentrated on one single goal: find the Doctor. He would know what to do. And he did, but he had also left her with a far more greater task. Maybe he had known, in his own way, about her, had made the decision without her, had left her without saying good-bye.

She had succumbed to the dream of him not having changed, of finding him where they had been forced apart. For a while, she had sought comfort in this foolish, girlish dream. Four years had passed for her, and she had changed, had finally made a life in Pete's World. What had she been expecting?

And now the Doctor was here, with her, forever. And while she knew she – they – could deal with the survivor's guilt and could settle into a life together, really forever this time, as long as forever was for humans, the thought of dealing with the Doctor's loss made her inconsolable and helpless. She had seen the Doctor break as Davros had sent the TARDIS into the burning hell that was the core of the Crucible. Had tried to comfort him but when she had slipped her hand into his it had taken too long for him to respond to the gesture. The TARDIS had returned, as she always had, but when she was taken away again, it was for good. She couldn't even begin to imagine what the ship's loss must mean for the Doctor, but she had a feeling that there was more to Donna's diagnosis of phantom limb pain. Rose shivered despite the warmth of the early morning, cerulean sky and all.

If only she could help him.

Anger bubbled up inside her, white, hot. How could the Other have done that to him? He must have known what the separation must mean for the Doctor – even if he was half-human. There was only so much she knew about telepathy and its bonds, but even if his body was human, the Doctor's mind was still a Time Lord's, and the sudden cut of this link – it must be devastating, mind-boggling. So painful to the mind that it couldn't bear with it and burdened it onto the body. Rose had no idea if the Doctor still had his telepathic abilities or if they were gone with his TARDIS.

Robbed of all this, bereft, mutilated even, it was little wonder that the Doctor had run. How scared he must have been, how broken to have had all this taken from him. So it was understandable that her initial lack of affection – and her failure to show him her love for him more convincingly – had not been much of a help.

"Rose?"

The Doctor's voice shook her out of her bitterness, so unusual for her, that momentarily she was appalled at herself. She managed to recover quickly, however, courtesy of her role as Vitex heiress, and she schooled a smile on her lips. Which soon turned into a genuine one when she turned and found him standing in the French windows, towel wrapped around his narrow hips, hair dishevelled and wet again.

"Good morning," she said. "Sleep well?"

He padded towards her, not quite hobbling, but still careful to put weight on his left leg, to kiss her good morning.

"Very. Why didn't you wake me?"

"I couldn't. You looked so calm." Neither 'peaceful' nor 'serene' seemed to do him justice, at least not after what she had been thinking.

-:-

He didn't need his telepathic abilities to know that she had been tormenting herself over something. Her smile seemed practised and it took its own sweet time to reach her eyes.

"I've been thinking about the Other," Rose offered.

Oh.

He settled into the chair she had occupied the previous night, running his fingers through his towelled down hair.

"What he's done to you. Leaving you behind, knowing what the loss of the TARDIS would mean to you," Rose continued, measured, thoughtful. "It terrifies me. _He_ terrifies me."

Brilliant Rose. Of course she had understood what this was all about. His nightmares, his desperate need of her. A sharp stab of conscience sliced through him. He hadn't meant to tell her about the TARDIS coral, not ever, because it would only add to her sorrow. But if he didn't, this secret would always stand between them, and he knew that eventually, he would lose her over it, because of it.

"Rose, there's something I have to tell you. About him," he began, gladly accepting her hand when she reached out for him. How small it seemed between his fingers, the fine bones so easily crushed, so magical. He met her serious brown eyes. "He gave me a piece of the TARDIS before he dropped us here."

Rose's lips turned into an incredulous oval, and shame rose high in her cheeks. She was about to say something, apologise for blaming the Other – and thus himself – so readily. Which was alright after his decision to leave her behind. With himself. He touched her lips with his fingertips.

"Don't. I know."

"But where's that piece now?"

He smiled, chagrined. His clever Rose. She knew he didn't have it anymore. "I lost it. The accident, or some time thereafter, I had it when I left the hotel, I remember putting it in my pocket. But I must have lost it. Probably fell out there in the street, or when I was in A&E. Anyway, it wasn't among my personal belongings when they released me. Every other bit was there, but not the coral." He had watched her eyes fill, and yet he couldn't stop himself, had babbled on, and now it was too late. Her full eyes were spilling over. He drew her towards him, into his arms, and held her while she was mourning his loss, again doing something for him that he couldn't bring himself to do. It would break him for good.

The Doctor was prepared to sit like this, with Rose in his lap, resting against his bare chest, for a long time. But she withdrew very suddenly to hug him tightly to her, still distraught, but clearly calming down in a bewildering stream of sobs, sniffles and laughs.

"Rose? Rose, love, what's wrong?" he asked, knowing no better than to return her embrace.

Rose let go of him, and even if her eyes were still swimming in tears, they were also smiling. "I …I just realised something."

She kissed the top of his damp head.

"What is it?"

"I'm not sure," she said, "that's why I can't tell you. But we'll be alright, you and me." At this, she smiled genuinely, and this sudden joy of hers worried him more than anything else. She was clearly being hysteric. Had she even realised what he had just told her? Life was going to be a nightmare without the coral – as the Other had not failed to foresee – and here she went crying and laughing and telling him this beautiful, horrible lie?

"Rose," he said, more angrily than he'd meant to, grabbing her wrists to make her let go of him.

"I promise you, Doctor," she insisted as she kissed his cheek, "we will be alright."

"Don't do that," he murmured. Then he raised his eyes to meet hers. "Don't do that to us." But she wouldn't listen.


	6. Chapter 18

Rose's breakdown should have left him more worried than angry, but hiding behind his anger was so much easier than succumbing to his worry. Anger provided him with a suit of armour, at least, impenetrable to the fear that was already coiling itself like a snake deep inside him. He knew that once the armour was in place, it would be hard to divest himself of it, because it was oh so comfortable. But when he should lose Rose, then at least he wanted to be prepared.

He found her on the terrace of the guesthouse, breaking her fast with Donna. Nothing about her looks gave away what had happened earlier; she looked energetic yet anxious, her whole body tense despite her best attempt to sit still, composed. She brushed back a lock that had escaped from her ponytail, and she had wound one leg around the other so tightly that her skin had gone pale in that spot.

A mug of tea and a bowl of fruit salad were already set out for him, but Rose's _cornetto_ sat untouched on the small plate by her side. The rest of the table was covered in the contents of Donna's handbag; purse and travel wallet, toy cars, tampons, an assortment of sweets, make-up bag, keys, car keys, hospital ID, books, lego bricks, tissues, hairgrips – the hairbrush lay in her lap. Donna's handbag was impossibly huge, and if he didn't know better, he would have taken it to be from one of the Gallifreyan markets.

Both women looked up as his shadow fell across the table.

"Good morning, Doctor," Donna said cheerfully, but distractedly rooting for more in her bag.

Despite himself, he relaxed at her greeting, her very familiar and welcome presence. Donna had always done that to him, her company was friendly and thankfully devoid of any undercurrents that he should have picked up on. There was something that radiated from her, something familiar, but he couldn't for the life of him put his finger on it. Something that had helped him through the worst parts of his short human life. "Hello, Donna."

He sat and sipped his tea, meeting Rose's hopeful gaze over the rim of the mug. She dropped her hand to rest on his knee, or whatever she could touch of it for the splint. He felt his muscles tense at the touch, but her gesture was so reassuring, and her expression so confident that he felt something loosen inside him. Had it just been the windmills of his mind earlier that had upset him so? Had upset him more than Rose had actually been, despite her tears and her laughter?

"It must be in here somewhere," Donna said more to herself than for their benefit. "It probably slipped into one of the folds of the lining."

Rose was nibbling nervously at her _cornetto_. Obviously this was not about something she wanted to borrow off Donna, since all the more or less embarrassing items he could think of were already on the table. He had scooped up some fruit from his bowl after he had made sure there were no pears in it, and was about to take a bite when Donna's sudden triumphant exclamation made him nearly drop his spoon. She put a shapeless lump of something wrapped in a frayed tissue on the table. He was about to wrinkle his nose in disgust when he sensed a familiar entity. It was exactly what Donna had been radiating, and more. It was weak, much weaker than his subconscious remembered it to be, but it was definitely there, and unmistakeably so, for it was unique in this universe. Just like him.

"Doctor, are you alright?" Rose asked, squeezing his hand.

There it was, wrapped in that frayed tissue, and there it had always been. All those agonising, terrifying, lonely nights, when he had been so afraid of himself, of what he was thinking, of what he might do. He reached for the bundle, still not quite believing in this reunion. Rose let go of his hand as he made to unwrap his most precious possession with trembling fingers, trying to be careful and gentle in his need to feel it, see it. His single heart was in his mouth. His little world narrowed even more.

Then the TARDIS coral rolled into his open palm, and the instant it touched the sensitive pink skin, easily penetrating his suit of armour, something inside him slipped back into place, mended a part of him that had broken, and Rose's words echoed in his ears: "We will be alright."

As soon as he opened his mouth he noticed that he was unable to speak. A second attempt failed even more pathetically than the first, and so he just drew in a much-needed breath. Already the warmth of the TARDIS was spreading inside him, and he could feel her caress as she shone her golden light in his mind, reviving and opening the pathways that had gone so long without her comfort.

It was only through a watery sheen that he recognised his surroundings, with Donna's and Rose's face taking turns at swimming into focus. He swallowed hard as he closed his fingers around the warm golden glow of the coral, closed his eyes as he picked up the gentle hum that had been a constant companion throughout all these centuries.

He woke when he felt a warm hand touch his shoulder, and when he opened his eyes he looked straight into Rose's concerned gaze. He shrugged off her touch, scorching as it almost was, even through the cotton of his shirt, and gritted his teeth, dimpling his cheek.

"Doctor?"

"Leave it," he said softly, his anger now rekindled and therefore barely contained. "Just leave me." He stood.

"Don't," Rose began.

"Can't I be by myself for a bit?" he thundered, pushing the chair back with the backs of his knees rather forcefully, nearly making it topple, and left. He had to get out of here, away, just away and be himself for a moment. Why couldn't they just let him be.

Before he knew it, he was in his chair under the olive tree, his bad leg smarting a bit from his fast escape. He still could not believe that he had the TARDIS coral back, but there it sat in the bowl that were his palms, filling it with its soft golden glow. He basked in its warmth, and closed his eyes the better to hear its soft song. His TARDIS' presence wasn't as strong as it had been as his fully grown ship, but it was definitely there, soothing, encouraging. The coral had been the last – lost – piece that made him up. Already he felt so much better, memories surfaced to tuck away others, words slipped back into place that had until now been adrift somewhere, robbing him of the ability to express himself.

This was a kind of comfort that neither Rose nor Donna would ever haven been able to give him, despite their best intentions.

He felt like he had as a little boy, when he would open the lacquer box that held his most treasured possessions, small mementoes of happy days, days when he had not been that lonely. He would pick up each object to examine it, turn it this way and that in his careful, chubby fingers, drifting them across their surface lest he break or damage something. The lacquer box with all its wonderful memory treasures was gone now, burnt in the fires of the Time War that had consumed his home. And part of himself. Never once in these past weeks would he have thought that he would ever get back those that had not been buried in the lacquer box. But here they were.

He was not alone.

After he had sat quietly for he didn't know how long – did it matter? – he sensed the very familiar presence of Donna next to him, rather than in his mind alone; where he had been able to shut her out by closing that door on her. He opened his eyes, blinking in the morning sun, and turned towards her.

Donna looked absolutely devastated, shaken, very much like the Donna who had heard the Lament of the Ood; the Donna who would never be forgotten in their part of the multiverse.

"I'd totally forgotten about the stone. Coral," she began, handing him a fresh mug of tea. Which he accepted and sipped at gingerly lest he burn his lips. "Giorgio, the doctor who patched you up in casualty, gave it to me because he had no idea what it was. Neither did I."

He held the coral out for her to pick up from his open palm. "Take it."

-:-

Donna took the coral, and felt its peculiar warmth, the rough yet soft surface. Only now could she feel it hum, the sound almost imperceptible, travelling from her fingers to her arm and from there spreading all over her body. It was very subtle, certainly much less intense than the shivers that ran down her spine when Sam told her he loved her. It hadn't done that at the hospital, and it certainly hadn't been glowing then, either. "It feels as though it knows me," she said in surprise.

"It does," the Doctor replied. "The Other gave it to me so it could keep me safe. Sane. This little piece of my ship carries part of me. What I am."

"It was just some stone to me," she said, letting the coral roll back into the Doctor's palm. "So I dropped it into my bag, meaning to return it to you as soon as possible. People keep all kinds of things for talismans. I've returned quite a few of those to their owner, have never forgotten about a single one of them. You were in surgery. Do you know, the doctors were not too optimistic about your leg. And I had caused it. After that, you were in intensive care, and they don't allow corals there." She paused. "It looks like a litchi. I hate litchis." She took a deep breath as realisation washed over her. "What I've done to you," – he opened his mouth to say something, but Donna waved him off – "what I've done you is unforgivable. Inexcusable. I'm so so sorry."

"Yeah."

"I have a feeling," Donna said to fight back the telltale tickling in her nose, "the other Donna would never have done that."

"I trusted her. She was like a sister to me."

Well, that's that then, Donna thought, swallowing hard, shrugging into her scrubs. Nevertheless, her heart sank. Although she had not expected him to forgive her just like that, she had at least hoped for a more placatory reaction. Knowing that it had been because of her failure to remember the coral that he had tormented himself so in his dreams made her doubt she could ever forgive herself. But she also knew that she could only forgive herself for this when he did – if he did.

The tears were threatening to come despite the scrubs. Donna smiled bravely. "Promise me something."

The Doctor lifted his eyes from the contents of his mug to meet hers. She could see his barely guarded anger flare in his dark eyes. Here she sat asking him for a favour, when he had refused her forgiveness. "Don't be angry with Rose. It wasn't her fault. She only realised I had the coral this morning. My Italian has been improving rather incredibly in the past few weeks; she'd noticed, but found the explanation only when you told her about the coral."

The Doctor's eyes went wide first with surprise, then he narrowed them. "Are you telling me it's my fault?"

No.

Yes.

Instead of an answer, Donna checked her watch and rose. "You have an appointment in about five minutes. I have to go. They need me at home." Despite herself, despite his forbidding gaze and the angry dimple, Donna bent to kiss his cheek. Then she turned and walked back to the guest house to collect her bags.

Rose was waiting for her to say good-bye, and Donna was grateful for her embrace when she offered it. "He'll forgive you. Us," Rose said when they separated.

Donna smiled wistfully, wishing she could believe Rose, no matter how sincere and confident she sounded. "I wish I could stay," Donna said. She really wanted to stay to help her and the Doctor, to be a third party they could turn to and trust. But this privilege she had forfeited with her failure to return the coral, at least when it came to the Doctor. She had even meant to ask for the other Donna's memories so she could understand their history, and to understand, to really wrap her mind around the fact that in a parallel world there lived a woman who was just like her. A woman the Doctor considered close enough to be his sister. "Call me any time, will you?"

"I will, thanks," Rose replied with a grateful smile.

Then her taxi arrived, and before she could turn round, her bug was put into the boot and herself bundled in the backseat of the freezing car, and Rose, waving, was becoming smaller and smaller as the taxi pulled out of the driveway and through the gate, until she vanished as they turned right.

-:-

Once again, the Doctor had withdrawn from her. He only offered what information he deemed absolutely necessary, the rest she had to dig for. Like the fact that he could leave the rehab unit that very same day. The results of his final examination had been more than satisfactory so the doctor in charge had deemed any further delay in his discharge unnecessary, and as he told Rose when she ran into him, detrimental to his full recovery. "He needs to be out of here, he's been in hospital long enough."

So they had packed their bags before lunch, and as they sat in the little car – with the Doctor eventually in the passenger seat, after he had got in behind the steering wheel at first – he turned to look at Rose. "Let's not go home just yet." He reached across the handbrake to take her right hand.

"Alright then," Rose agreed, glad, for she wasn't quite sure herself if she was ready to go home just yet. And the fact that he had used the very word – home – made her smile. "You'll have to let go of my hand, though."

Then she put the key into the ignition and pulled out of the driveway, and once outside the gate, turned left.

She drove to the posh but romantic hotel she and Donna had discovered on the edge of San Girolamo. It was housed in one of the _palazzi_ that were part of the well-preserved city wall, small castles within the city walls with shady gardens and spacious loggias, the restaurant built into the former stable. The room they were given used to be a loggia opening on the outside of the city wall, built at a time when the sturdy stonework was no longer needed to protect the city. Part of the loggia had been made part of the room itself, while the other part was still used as a balcony. Rose opened the French windows wide to let in some air, and stepped outside into the deep shadow of the loggia. The view from here was breathtaking as the eye roamed the western hills dark with woodland and vineyards, which towards the south evened out into gently rolling fields golden with corn and sunflowers.

The feeling of distance was carried from the balcony into the room in the form of more or less well-preserved frescos depicting a garden scene on the cream-coloured walls, trees and plants curling up into the massive dark rafters that supported the roof. Rose shook off her sandals to feel the cool softness of the faded red brick floor under her toes.

She watched the Doctor touch the expensive linens of the huge, cast-iron bed that dominated the room. The material of the cream-coloured sheets was new to him, as it only existed in Pete's World: it felt silken, but was firm like linen. He trailed his fingers appreciatively over the sheets until they met Rose's fingers. She had sat down on the bed to see his face. He looked calmer now. Tentatively she wove her fingers through his as she gauged his reaction. To her relief, he sat, closed his fingers over hers and brushed his thumb over hers.

He looked at her. "We'll sleep well here," he said.

"After lunch?" Rose asked. "I'm famished." She had only had her _cornetto_, and the Doctor had only had his tea.

They enjoyed a light lunch in the shady garden of their hotel before returning to their beautiful room for a nap. It was the best way to escape the midday heat, let alone to catch up on some much needed sleep after the previous night. Not that Rose minded making love in the middle of the night. The Doctor watched her as she loosened her ponytail and stripped down to her knickers and camisole to lie down in the cool sheets of the bed.

"I don't think I'll be able to sleep," he said, hands buried in the pockets of his trousers. He was neither inside nor outside, leaning against the French windows.

"You could give it a try," Rose encouraged. "Or just lie down and rest."

"Yeah," he murmured, unconvinced, unmoving.

Rose closed her eyes, and soon fell asleep to the lullaby of the crickets.


	7. Chapter 19

He was gone.

Rose sat up with a start once her drowsy mind registered the lack of his presence. His side of the bed was untouched, and as she craned her neck she could not see him sit outside either. Her heart was in her mouth, and memories of finding his bed in her flat empty flooded through her. She found it difficult to breathe, unable to move for fear of finding nothing, or, worse, a note. Telling her that he could not rest, stay in one place. With her.

Not now that he had got his coral back, that Donna had gone. His anger had been bubbling close to the surface, well-guarded save the dimple in his cheek. True, Donna should have returned the coral much earlier, but how was she to know how important it was to him, what it was in the first place? He had never once mentioned it, not even to her, for whatever reason. To protect her, probably. To make her stay by his side.

And now he was gone. Again.

Her mobile phone chirped with the tone she had assigned to Jackie's number. Trust her for her impeccable timing. Rose let it chirp a second time, a third, before she picked the device up and flicked it open.

"Hi." She had to try to sound normal.

"Hi!" She exhaled in relief. The voice was Tony's.

"Hello, little man. How are you?" Why was it always so much easier to cheer up for him than for her mum?

"I miss you," Tony pouted.

"I miss you, too."

"When are you coming home?"

"Not just yet, Tony. I'm on holiday."

"Oh! Is it nice?"

"Very. It's very hot where I am. I have to take a nap in the afternoon because of it. Have you had your nap?"

"Yes, of course!"

"Silly question," Rose smiled. "Can I talk to Mum?"

"Okay." She could hear him hand the phone back to Jackie.

"Hello, sweetheart," Jackie said, at the same time shooing Tony out of immediate earshot, telling him to go play with his lego bricks. "How are you?"

"Fine, I'm fine," Rose said, when all she wanted to do was cry that he was gone again. "The Doctor was released from rehab unit today."

"Is he alright?"

"Yep," she said. It was not exactly a lie. She did not know. "Listen, we're going to stay here for a couple of days longer. Is that okay?"

"As long as you're back for the garden party."

Oh dear. She had completely forgotten about the annual Tyler Garden Party, the most important of their charity events. It was also one of the few society events she really liked, and she was loath to miss it. Last year she had gone despite her injuries.

"You haven't told him," Jackie said.

"No."

"You have to tell him, sweetheart."

"It's not a good time, Mum," Rose said, settling for part of the truth. "There have been so many other things to care of."

Jackie didn't reply immediately. "I see." She seemed to remember Bad Wolf Bay. "Listen, sweetheart, we would love you to be back for it, but if things between you and the Doctor still need sorting out – take as much time as you need, right? Sweetheart?"

"Thanks, Mum."

"Are you sure you're alright, though?"

"Yes."

"I don't believe you. Call me when you need me, okay?"

Rose smiled. Trust her mother to notice even over the phone. "I will, thanks, Mum." Then she rang off, but remained sitting on the bed, unmoving for a while, until she could no longer avoid getting up to use en-suite bathroom.

When she padded back into the main room, she noticed the Doctor's carryall. It was open, and both his sketchpads were missing; they were the last things he packed on top of everything else to be able to retrieve it quickly and to make sure they weren't damaged. Despite herself, she turned around, following an instinct, and went to the old table by the painted shrubbery. One of his sketchpads was lying there, open to a drawing she hadn't yet seen.

It was a rough pencil sketch of her, lying stretched out on her side on the bed in her knickers and camisole, one hand dangling over the edge of the bed, the other curled beneath her chin. Sleeping. Then she found the note she had so dreaded finding. _Sweet dreams, my love. I'll be back soon, I just can't rest. The Doctor x._

Rose sat on one of the two deliberately mismatched chairs. Then she read the note again, scribbled beneath the edge of the bed in the drawing. Had he addressed the girl in the picture, or was this note actually for her? She wasn't so sure of it any more.

She stood to put her dress back on and twist her hair into some sort of knot to get some cool air into the nape of her neck. But that was all she could bring herself to do. The drive to do something, anything deserted her just like that. She just stood in the middle of the room, unsure of where to go, what to do. It seemed so hard to make a decision, even a simple one if she should go and sit outside, or have a drink of water, or read a book, or lie down and sleep this all away to see upon waking if this hadn't just been a dream.

Rose had no idea how long she had been standing like this, unable to move, unwilling to move, unknowing how much energy was still left in her to be strong for a man who was neither here nor there. She turned her head as she heard the soft click as the key card was pulled through the slot and the door opened. Heard him enter the room, putting down a paper bag and his sketchpad on the table, moving to stand behind her.

Finally he cupped her bare shoulders with his hands and bent his head to drop a kiss onto her shoulder, her spine, the other shoulder.

"I don't know if I can do this," she eventually said, head still turned to one side. He drifted his fingers down the long line of her neck. "You, wandering off just like this. Waking to notes. Waiting for you." She stepped away from him, turning around to face him. She felt a sudden need to look him in the eye, to face his answer.

"I'm sorry."

She inhaled deeply. "Don't, Doctor. I want you to tell me what's the matter. 'Cos if you don't, I might walk away, just like Donna. She had no idea. Nor did I. How could we possibly have known? Eh?" Rose took a step backwards. She did not recognise this calm rage of hers.

The Doctor squared his jaw and raised his chin a little. But the dimple would not appear, she could see that even in the dim half-light of the room. "You're right. Yes."

"Well?"

"I should have told you earlier," he said.

Rose felt something in her soften. She had not expected him to admit to this so readily. "Why didn't you?"

"I was afraid. Terrified, really," he began, "not admitting the coral was gone was such a beautiful lie. Humans do that, don't they, give up hope last? Even if it's against hope. I felt trapped, what those dreams did to me... you have no idea. To be reduced to this whimpering thing in the darkest corner of the room. Knowing that this body needs sleep, and dreams… And I am afraid of losing you. I've already managed to scare away Donna." He smiled mirthlessly, his eyes wide and full of apologies, full of the words that he really meant.

"She felt really bad about it, you know."

"What those dreams did to me… for a moment I felt at her mercy, and she dropped the coral so casually, in that thing, as if it were just something. Meaningless."

"You can't blame her."

"I know!" he cried, frustrated. "I know." He gestured for the sketchpad he had taken with him. Rose went to the table, opened it, and found a crumpled letter under the cover flap. She didn't recognise the handwriting. "It's from Donna. She sent it to me a couple of weeks ago. I couldn't understand it then. Go ahead. Read it."

_Dear John,_

_I feel a bit ridiculous for writing to you even when I have no idea if you can understand my words at all, but it seems fitting, since all our conversations have been like this. Yet it fills me with an odd feeling of comfort to keep in touch with you. Sending this to you over thousands of miles does not make you any more distant from me than talking to you in hospital – you've always been miles away there, too, after all. I do not know why that is so, but I dearly hope it's not because of what I've done to you. For which I still feel horrible. My carelessness has shaken me to the core, and there's nothing I wish for more than being able to turn back time and brake in time for you to cross the street unharmed. So I guess what this letter is about is one last time for me to ask your forgiveness, hoping that there'll be a way for it to reach you. I hope that one day you will be able to do this for me, so I can forgive myself._

_I am back home now, with my husband and son, but in a way I am still with you. And they know that. They send their love along with their best wishes to this stranger that has so affected me. They do know you just as well as I do by now, and none of us can imagine someone being so alone. I have looked into your eyes, the saddest, oldest and kindest eyes I've ever seen, and I've wondered who you are. Who's hiding in there._

_In a fortnight's time I will be able to get another couple of days off so I can come and see you. Hopefully to meet your loved ones, and to address you by your real name. Or if not to find out about them. It's the least I can do._

_Love,_

_Donna_

Rose went to her bedside table to pick up her mobile. "You have to tell her, even if it's over the phone," she said, holding the device out for him. He accepted it, and Rose left the room to sit in the loggia, with her back to him. Part of her was still mystified by and afraid of his sudden anger, and she hoped that this was because he was still adjusting to life with the coral back. Never before had she seen his temper fly so high, at least not undeservedly. He had seemed heartbroken enough when he had realised what his wandering off had done to her, so she decided to drop the topic. Maybe she had overreacted a little, too.

It took him a while to join her outside, and when he came he brought her a peach, its skin smooth from the cold water he had run over it to get rid of the dust. It was like a peace-offering, and Rose accepted it in surprise. She bit into it, the flavour of the yellow flesh exploding on her tongue. It was so juicy, it dribbled all over her chin. She sat up, laughing.

"This is delicious," she giggled, chewing. "Where did you get them?"

"There's a market in town," the Doctor offered between two bites of his own peach. "They were just packing up. I was lucky to get the last. Really, those Italian markets are wonderful! You can get everything there, fruit, vegetables, chickens, those ugly monkfish – but they're delicious, really, and they have just one bone, too, clothes, books – all kinds of books, new and old, I… "

"Did they give them to you just like that?"

The Doctor frowned, then realised, scoffed: "Nah, I paid for them. Made a bit of money, drawing the castle, views of town, the landscape, that sort of thing, you know."

Rose nodded, eating her peach thoughtfully. "That's how you got by when you were travelling." It wasn't a question.

"Donna sends her love," he said after a while. He finished his peach and put the stone on the coffee table between them. He rested his elbows on his knees and looked intently at Rose. She bent forward, brushing some juice off his chin with her thumb.

"Thanks." Rose stood and moved to sit on the settee next to him. He turned towards her, reaching around her back with his arm. "Can you just hold me, please?" The Doctor leaned back into the cushions, and Rose lay down to snuggle up to him, her head resting on his chest where she could listen to his steady heartbeat. He began to play with her fingers as she was tracing invisible and very intricate patterns on his chest.

They were content just to sit like this, listening to the crickets and swallows in the quiet heat of the afternoon. No sound of the town managed to get as far as their loggia outside the city walls. Rose could feel her mixed emotions untangle and change into something more peaceful. A moment of calm such as this wanted to be made the most of, as it was so rare in a life with the Doctor. At one point, he had stopped playing with her fingers, just held them, but when they slipped out of his limp fingers and his cheek rested on the top of her head, Rose smiled. He had fallen asleep after all.

"I love you, Doctor."

For some reason telling him that as he was dozing felt right, maybe because she was still not sure he felt entirely comfortable in that role, loving her as an equal, as a human. The shock about the TARDIS coral and its recovery was still so raw and new she did not want to make him feel cornered, forced into a life with her. Because life with her was not like his old life, made up of travelling time and space and running for their lives, never staying in one place long enough to form attachments of any sort. Life with her meant doing the domestic thing, even when they could spend some of their time travelling. Contact with alien worlds would be strictly limited to whatever appeared on the Torchwood sensors.

And there was the business of her being the Vitex heiress, of course. There had been no chance to tell him about that yet, and what life in public meant. Her family tried to limit it to an absolute minimum, keeping her brother out of it completely, but there were some occasions at which they had to be present and represent. They would present their public characters, roles, they took on and played. Rose was not sure how he would take to that role of hers, charming, all smiles, perfect at small talk, knowing exactly how to deal with people so she would be exactly who they wanted to see. But then again, she was a different woman when she worked for Torchwood, too, tough, ready to make decisions, unpopular ones when necessary, brave, reckless sometimes. But also taking her time to step back so she did not miss the bigger picture. A Rose he knew.

The Doctor sighed in his light slumber, and took a deep breath. Rose smiled. She worked open the buttons on his shirt, from the topmost he had cared to button up, to the very bottom one. He had not tucked the tails of his shirt into his trousers because of the heat, and because he did not look as awfully skinny this way. Rose slid her free hand underneath the fabric, running her hand up his side, to draw it across his chest and back down again over his stomach. This she repeated a couple of times, until the smattering of hair across his chest caught her attention. She had just meant to touch his skin, to be even closer to him, so when she accidentally brushed his nipple, she was startled as the touch elicited a soft sigh from him. He raised his head, and when she looked at him, he looked rested, and calm. He was smiling.

"Hi," she said.

"I like that," he replied, his voice a little gravelly from sleep.

Rose smiled, tip of the tongue between her teeth. "Do you, now?"

"I could get used to falling asleep like this," he murmured.

"I just woke you."

"You're a wicked woman," he said, kissing her gently. "But wonderful, too."

Rose grinned and moved to trail sweet little kisses over his chest, brushing back the fabric of his shirt.

"Rose?"

Rose hummed to let him know he had her not quite undivided attention. When he didn't go on, she stopped her caresses and rose to straddle him. Her eyes, when she looked at them, were wide and dark and liquid with desire.

"Doctor?"

"I love you, too."

His arms came around her as she closed the distance between them to kiss him.


	8. Chapter 20

A/N: You are welcome to read the MA version of this chapter at my livejournal.

-:-

He surrendered almost at once when Rose tickled his lower lip with her tongue. She rose to her knees to push him pack into the cushions, cradling his head in her hands, running her fingers through his hair and down his jawline as she took full advantage of the angle. Rose wanted to show him all that she was unable to find words for in response, positively plundering his mouth, and he let her. She tasted so delicious, of herself and of peach, a heady, seductive mixture. He trailed his hands up and down her back, cupping and squeezing her bum. She withdrew at that, sighing softly into his breath.

"We _are_ going to be alright, aren't we?" she whispered, breathless.

"Chances are… if we don't kiss each other to death," he replied softly, but it was only then that the seriousness in Rose's tone registered. "Yes, we are going to be alright. My love." He looked up into her darkened eyes.

"Good," was all she said before she kissed him again.

And again, he let her, and when her hands travelled down his torso, pushing the shirt even further out of the way, he cupped her face with his right hand and met her pelvis as she rocked it against his. He gently pushed Rose away as the friction was almost too much to bear.

"Rose."

She climbed off him to sit on the coffee table so she could take off his plimsolls and socks. Of course, she took her own sweet time doing so, her fingers dancing over the skin of his feet and toes. He sucked in air and closed his eyes. What her fingers did to him was somewhere in between tickling and teasing. Finally, she held out her hand for him to grasp as he got up, and he let her lead him inside. Shrugging off his shirt, he followed her as she stretched out on the bed. He lay down beside her, and this time it was he who kissed her. But he took his time in doing so, teasing her, kissing her with all the tenderness he felt for her and that words couldn't even begin to describe. There weren't even Gallifreyan words for it, and that was something.

As his fingers slid beneath the fabric, they easily found the slightly hardened texture of her skin again. He pushed the skirt up so he could see and the pale skin of her scar. Then he scooted down to kiss it. "What happened?" he asked, looking up to her.

Rose rolled over to lie on her back, her fingers joining his over the scar of their own volition, in an almost self-conscious gesture. Sensing her unease, he dropped his gaze and withdrew his hand, began instead to follow the edge of her knickers where it dipped away from her hipbone.

"It was an accident," Rose offered softly. "At work."

The Doctor just nodded.

"There are ways… I could have them removed," she went on, "but I wanted to keep them as a reminder."

He looked at her. "I nearly lost you then, didn't I?" Even in Gallifreyan, he realised, there would have been no tense to express this aspect of their situation – she, locked away in a parallel universe, he, thinking he had lost her yet hoping against hope, only to be reunited again. So why not pretend it was just a spatial, temporary separation?

Rose merely nodded.

He scooped her up into his arms, holding her tightly to him. "Promise me you'll be more careful."

"Now I've certainly broken the mood," Rose said, moving away from him. As he felt her palm press against him, he gasped, returning all his attention to her.

"Don't worry about that," he said, smiling, grabbing her wrist to make her let go of him. She looked hurt, so he kissed her slowly and deeply. "Let me do this for you." He pushed her back into the pillows, and, propping himself on an elbow, lay beside her, and began to caress her breasts through all the layers of fabric. Slowly, the tension melted away from her body, and she relaxed. He even caught her off guard when he brushed his thumb over her nipple, and he chuckled as she drew in a breath sharply.

"Better now?" he asked.

Rose hummed, so at ease she didn't even open her eyes, not even when he began to undress her, although she helped him.

He began to draw the edges and curves and plains, the highlights and shadows of her torso as he would have liked to earlier that afternoon, when he had sat on the floor in front of her, sketching her quickly as she slept. Only now he used his hands for a brush, and his memory for a canvas, laying all his emotions into the strokes which she could never feel when he caught her likeness in lead or coal or chalk on paper.

When he was satisfied with his first sketch, he returned to her with his lips and tongue, teeth gently nibbling here and there, kissing and licking, sucking the peachy flesh of her chest until she started to breathe harder and squirm and rake her fingers through his hair. Somehow he managed to elude her, as pleasurable as her ruffling his hair was, to finally lavish his attention to where it most expected. It was time to release her, to let her go.

And go she did, with his name and a prolonged soft cry tearing from her lips.

He smiled. He had done this several times to her before, and still it was so amazing that he could make her lose herself so, give her so much pleasure. He scooted up to lie beside her and enfold her in an embrace as she came back to him, her breathing slowly calming.

"Doctor?" she mumbled against his skin where she buried her face in the crook of his neck. She, too, was drawing patterns on skin, exploring the hollow above his collarbone. When he didn't reply at once, enjoying the moment, she withdrew and propped herself on her elbow next to him. He paused as he signed his name in Gallifreyan on her chest. She could not possibly have realised what it was that he was doing. To her, it was just a caress. To him… well, it was the beginning of something wonderful. "You're overdressed." She made short work of the offending garments, but then just stretched out beside him. Trust her to read him like an open book.

"Doctor?"

"Sometimes I'm scared by how much I love you," he whispered. "And that I'll never be able show you."

Rose drew back and framed his face in her hands. "But you just did." She showered his face with countless little kisses. "Now let me show you." A shiver coursed up and down his spine at her words, and he smoothed his palms against her waist. "And don't be scared."

-:-

When they went to the hotel's restaurant both of them thought they were rather late, as they had fallen into a light slumber afterwards. The shower had taken longer as well, as they had been able to keep away from each other. By the time they had made themselves presentable, the sun was low above the horizon outside their windows. Upon entering the former stable, however, they realised they had arrived just in time, as most of the other patrons had just sat down. If they hadn't been staying at the hotel, they would not have been accommodated. But their room came with a lovely table, tucked away in the far corner of the restaurant. Which was a relief to Rose, as it meant that chances of anyone recognising her were low, even if she wasn't as famous here as back home. Which reminded her that she had yet to tell him.

"What's good?" she asked over the edge of her menu. She had relied on Donna until this morning when it came to Italian. Now that the Doctor had his TARDIS coral back, she would have to rely on him for that.

"Everything sounds quite good," he said, looking up from his menu, grinning. "But then I'm a hungry man."

The waitress chose that moment to appear to take their drinks order. Rose had picked out a bottle of red wine, much to the Doctor's surprise. His eyebrow of doom, as she called it, rose into a perfect triangle above the rim of his glasses.

"We have risotto and _tagliata_ as specials, today," the waitress told the Doctor. He was completely oblivious to the way she was looking at him, Rose noted. She tried hard to keep a straight face. In the end, the Doctor ordered the specials for himself, and the risotto only for Rose. She was ravenous, but she had caught a glimpse of the dolce in the refrigerated cabinet, and she would definitely order _un pò di tutto_ from it for dessert.

The wine waiter was quite surprised at first when it was Rose who tasted the wine rather than the Doctor, but he commented no further on it. Once she had approved of the wine, he decanted it and told the Doctor – who translated for Rose – that he would return to pour the wine before their food was served.

"I didn't know you appreciated wine that much," he said once the waiter had disappeared.

Here we go, Rose thought. She straightened a little in her seat. "I learned that from Dad," she offered.

"He has made his fortune with soft drinks, though, if I remember correctly," the Doctor said. He was stroking the back of her hand.

"That doesn't stop him from appreciating a good wine," she replied, meeting his gaze. "It's a good job he likes it, too, what with the demands that come with the fame and fortune."

The Doctor swallowed. Before he could say something, the waitress appeared, setting a plate of tomato salad on roast bread in front of each of them. "Enjoy." Rose was grateful for the interruption, and took a bite of her _bruschetta_.

"Just what are these demands, Rose?" he asked, having taken a bite himself. "This tastes great! Because I've seen a picture of you, in a local newspaper."

Rose put her bread down. She had not expected him to know anything about that, but then again, he was a clever man. Maybe it was better this way, so he was prepared for what she had to tell him. Nevertheless, she tried to be as careful as possible. "Four years is a long time, Doctor. Life has changed a lot for Dad after Lumic's demise. He has become quite the important man – as the head of Vitex as well as the head of Torchwood. He leads a double life, really, one in public as the man who invented Vitex, you know, with the whole celebrity shebang. And one as the head of Torchwood."

The wine waiter materialised next to them, pouring their wine from a beautiful glass decanter. Rose studied the Doctor's face as he took in the information. "You lead that life, too, don't you."

She played with the stem of her wineglass, but met his eyes when she said, "Yes."

The Doctor nodded. "Not the easiest life, then, chasing aliens by day and being chased by paparazzi at night. Right aliens they are, too, come to think of it."

"It's not that bad," Rose replied, picking up on his playful tone. "We try to keep a low profile, you know. Doing only the necessary stuff. Mostly because of Tony, you know. And at least I get to wear jeans as well as posh frocks."

He laughed softly. They touched the rims of their glasses in a toast to each other, eliciting a deep bell-like sound before they drank. The wine was really very good, dry, but heavy with the aroma of the sun and berries.

"How bad will it be?" he asked, flattening his hand around the base of his wineglass.

"When we go home?"

The Doctor nodded.

"There'll be a lot of interest at first," she said, opting for the truth. "But that can be taken care of." He raised an inquisitive eyebrow, encouraging her to go on. "There's the Tyler Garden Party; we'll give them what they want, and that's that."

Their risotto arrived.

"Will you be alright?" she asked, ignoring the food. She reached across the table to squeeze his hand. She had expected this to be so difficult, so awful, but he either seemed to be taking this in stride, or he was so shocked that he still hadn't realised what it entailed, being with the Vitex heiress. He had never been one to be at the centre of everyone's attention, despite all that he had done. He had saved the Earth from certain doom so often, and never even asked for a thank you.

"With you there, I'm sure I will."

-:-

AN: _Tagliata_ is a steak that's cut up in slices and served on a bed of rocket salad. _Un pò di tutto_ means a bit of everything.


	9. Chapter 21

That night was the first night with the coral back in the Doctor's possession. So much had happened that day that its events seemed enough to fill several days. Rose had experienced this trick of the mind before, especially since meeting, and reuniting with, the Doctor. As she lay wrapped around the Doctor, her head resting on his shoulder, she realised that it had only been that morning that she had discovered the coral in Donna's bag. Donna was probably on the night train to Paris right now, thankfully complete with the Doctor's forgiveness.

Rose lay listening to the Doctor's steady heartbeat and the rhythm of his breathing and watched her fingers as they played involuntarily with the hairs on his chest. They had made love when they returned from their leisurely dinner and he had dozed off shortly after. She smiled as she thought of the things they had done to each other; she had missed being with him, had forgotten how wonderful it could be. How amazing it was to feel him writhe and moan, digging his fingers into her flesh and crying her name as he came. It filled her with so much love and joy and mischief she thought she might burst. It was the next best thing to coming herself.

"I still can't believe I nearly lost you." His words came as he traced lazy patterns on her skin with his fingers, and she was more surprised at the non-sequitur than at its cutting sharply into the chirping that seemed to come from the garden painted on the walls. She wanted to reply that she couldn't either, but this was about her now. Instead of replying, she merely snuggled closer to him, humming to herself. He pressed his lips to her forehead.

"You would have never known," she said eventually, finishing the sentence in the privacy of her mind: if I had been killed that day. The thought was too disconcerting even now. And it was debatable, of course, if things would have developed the way they had had she died. With a shiver she remembered her first job after the incident, which had been to ensure that Donna met the Doctor.

"I'd really like to hear about it, Rose," he said, playing with some strands of her hair. She lay there for a minute or so, quite still, concentrating on the rhythm of the rise and fall of his chest. Everything that day had happened so quickly, had passed by in such a blur that, like today, it was hard to believe that it had all happened in one day. Time and again she had tried to sort through her memories, to make sense of them, but she had always failed. All that remained were snippets, and often she was not even quite sure if they genuine memories or if she had conjured them to fill in the blanks.

"It was because of an alien device," she began tentatively, and she felt the Doctor's grip tigthen around her as an encouragement for her to go on. "We had been given it for safekeeping by a stranded alien. We knew it was some sort of medical device, and when Tom analysed it – Tom Milligan, he's head of Torchwood Medical – he found out that it could be used to fight viral diseases. Very powerful, and highly classified."

"What kind of alien was that?"

"The Frix'oq."

"Never heard of them."

"Unique, it turned out, just like the two of us. Lots of folk seem to end up here," Rose offered. "Just like driftwood – Torchwood should be called Driftwood, really. But then again, that's what we're for, taking in the stranded. Even in Pete's World. Only the Rift opens in London rather than in Cardiff."

"Rose," the Doctor interrupted. "You're babbling."

Rose laughed and kissed whatever bit of his skin she could reach. "Learned that from the best." She paused.

"Still the device was stolen," the Doctor concluded.

"By one of our own. There are black sheep everywhere," Rose said wistfully, almost ashamed. "Torchwood here is nothing like Yvonne Hartmann's Torchwood. Pete and Mickey made sure about that." When he merely hummed in reply Rose knew that this was not quite what he wanted to hear, and Ben's betrayal cut deeply through her with new force.

Again, only the sound of the chirping of the crickets filled the room. Rose studied the patterns the slatted moonlight painted on the frescos.

Again, his soft voice woke her from her reverie. "If you don't want to tell me, that's okay."

"It's not like that, Doctor," Rose said. "I just don't remember. It happened so fast I didn't even feel pain until I woke up in hospital." She deliberately omitted that fact that she'd had to have surgery. "The guy who wanted to buy the device off Ben – he's the one who stole the device – suddenly wasn't alone any longer when things became difficult for him. He and his cronies also had some knives, and before I knew it... well, the world went black around me. We've been required to carry weapons ever since." Rose closed her eyes as she enjoyed his fingers playing in her hair. It was such a soothing gesture, as though he wanted to make up for not being able to be with her when she had needed him most. But then again, she had not been there for him either, because she had for once listened to him and given up her search for him.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there for you," she said, a wave of shame washing over her. She still did not know why she had given up her search for him, even when he had asked her to.

"Don't," he whispered, but didn't offer any further explanation. Rose didn't press him. There would be a time and place for him to explain why he had run away. His grip loosened, and Rose felt him relax even more as he slowly drifted into sleep. She smiled, kissed his chest and whispered, "Good night, my love."

-:-

Rose was perfectly content to just sit in the shade of the cloisters, reading her book and watching people mill about in the garden. The Doctor was sitting on the balustrade that separated the lawn from the flagstones, sketch pad on his knees. Occasionally, a tourist would sneak a peek at what he was drawing, which would make him and he would frown as their shadow fell across the whiteness of the paper. He would, however, indulge children, she had noticed, explaining and showing things to them. He will be great with Tony, she thought as she watched him lift a boy to sit beside him on the warm stone of the balustrade.

She shook her head. This man was and yet wasn't the Doctor. As he sat there working he radiated a calm that she had only rarely glimpsed, even when he had sat studying a book in the TARDIS library. Or the night before last, when he had picked up her book, content like she was just to get lost in someone else's adventures. Had his accident brought about this change, or was it the fact the he was now a human? Should she be glad for this?

His outstretched hand swam into focus, and he was waggling his fingers. Rose looked up and slipped her fingers into his. "Let's go for a walk," he said, sketch pad tucked under his arm.

She let him lead the way, glad she had put on her flat sandals because the flagstones could be quite tricky to negotiate. The streets were so narrow here that cars were not allowed and even the sun had difficulty reaching the ground; which made the midday heat that more bearable. Still, Rose felt drowsy. It had been a long night, for all the right reasons she thought, smiling.

"Rose?"

She snapped out of her reverie. They were standing in the central square which was dominated by the narrow clock tower of the town hall and crowded with natives and tourists alike who were browsing the stalls of the week-long market that took place as the town celebrated its patron saint. Flags had been raised and part of the square had been covered with sand and wood shavings for the horse race that was to take place at the end of the week. Rose had been imagining that night, the streets lit by thousands of torches, under which people celebrated in traditional clothes. She had seen photos in a guide book she had browsed when she and Donna were in town.

"Yeah, sorry," she smiled, giving his hand a squeeze. "I got a bit carried away. Must be quite a party on Saturday."

He grinned his brightest, most mischievous grin, so full of promise and of himself. "Can I show you something?"

Rose nodded warily, but let him guide her to one of the stone benches at the back of the loggia that reminded her of the one in Florence, although it wasn't quite so grand and filled with potted plants rather than statues.

"It's something I found out about yesterday," he said, tucking one leg underneath him so he could face her. He gestured for her to do the same. "Don't expect too much, it's still very weak, and it might not work for you at all, but, Rose," he stopped abruptly, gesturing helplessly, beaming with hope and happiness and excitement. She recognised the child in his eyes, and her heart went out to him. "This is so brilliant! The things we could do! Just imagine!"

"What things?" she asked, laughing. "What are you on about?"

"Time travel!"

Rose blinked.

"Time travel," she repeated, looking up at him from beneath her lashes, sceptical.

"Do you trust me, Rose?"

"You know I do."

She watched him dig in his pocket for the coral, and as he held it out for her, she reached for it to take it, but his fingers closed around hers and the coral.

"Close your eyes."

Her eyelids fluttered shut, not very difficult considering how tired she was. She shuddered as she felt his free hand cup the side of her face. He still had his telepathic abilities, and he was going to use them on her.

"Doctor... "

"I want to show you what it was like, life in the 14th century," he whispered, almost too softly to be audible in the constant drone of voices from the market. "Is that all right?"

Rose swallowed. "I guess so."

"You and me... travelling again." She could hear the laughter in his voice and couldn't help smiling.

"Yeah."

"Touch my face," he said, and she raised her free hand to cup his cheek, imitating his touch on her face, fingertips resting on his temple. "Don't be afraid. You can shut a door on me whenever I come too close to something you don't want me to see. You just have to imagine it."

Rose nodded.

And then he was inside her head, his presence light and as soothing as he could to minimize her distress, still she gasped for breath and she both heard and felt him shush her gently. She remembered the doors, and swiftly closed some of them, apologising as if wanting to hide a messy room from a sudden visitor. He smiled reassuringly, letting her know it was okay.

"Are you okay?" he whispered.

"I guess so," she said. "Aren't you closing any of those doors?" She was tempted to crane her neck.

"You are brilliant, Rose Tyler," he chuckled. "Ready?"

He then did something that released the coral's warmth, and she could feel it creep up her arm and spread throughout her whole body, but most of it rose to her head. It was a bit like getting drunk quickly, and the world around her – the Doctor's mind – went fuzzy and she felt strangely afloat, her body as well as her mind, before she was able to catch of glimpse of the Doctor's mind.

"Not quite yet, Rose," he whispered. "It's too soon for that."

"'s okay," she murmured, very drowsy, and very drunk. She felt very much like she was in a dream, free to wander about, leaving her body in the bed to rest while her busy mind tried to grasp what was going on.

"Go on, don't be scared," the Doctor encouraged her, and as she opened her eyes, he held out his hand for her to go for a walk with him. Reluctant to leave the safety of the loggia, she took it and stood, and she dared to look beyond him and the small space that was theirs she could see the market was still busy.

But the people. They were not wearing period costumes and making do with their hairstyle. This was the real thing, real people in their real clothes. This was the 14th century. Gone were road signs and street lamps and trailers, the potted plants that had shielded them in the shade of the loggia. Changed were the buildings around them, some of them were gone, replaced by others, all new and still in good repair. But oh the noise of the people and the animals; the air was filled with shouting and crying and braying and clanging and cackling. And the smell! Fruit and cooking smells were mixed with the sharp tang of tanned leather and unwashed bodies and waste both human and animal.

Rose recoiled and let go of the Doctor's hand.

She could feel his arms come around her as she slidoff the stone bench. But he caught her and wrapped his arms protectively around her, holding her close to him. She was sucking in the air greedily, as though she'd been under water too long, and it was only when she realised the sweetness of the air, its cleanness, the scent of the Doctor and his soap, that she allowed herself to calm down.

"I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry," the Doctor said over and over again, rocking her gently, pressing a kiss on her temple.


	10. Chapter 22

An Italian woman had seen Rose's breakdown, and she rushed to the Doctor's side in concern. "Can I help you, _signori_?" she offered, squatting in front of them. "Do you need a doctor?"

"No, no, thank you," he said. Rose was leaning against him for support. "It's just the heat."

"Here, drink this," the woman said, producing a bottle of water from her shopping basket. She opened the bottle and held it out for Rose. Rose accepted the bottle and took a swig.

"Are you all right?" the woman asked, gesturing for Rose to keep the bottle.

"Yes, thank you," Rose replied. The Doctor was relieved when he saw the colour return to her face. The woman got up, satisfied.

"You should get some rest, eh," she said before she picked up her shopping and left, turning back once in concern. The Doctor waved at her, grateful for the practical help, when all he would have done was hold Rose tight and whisper comforting nonsense to her. Tearing himself apart with worry.

"She's right, you know. Let's get you back to the hotel."

"Just give me a moment," Rose agreed. She took another sip of water before she nodded to let him know she was ready to go.

Back at the hotel Rose felt better, or at least that was what she was telling him. They were in the loggia, Rose comfortably settled on the sofa after she had bathed her wrists in cold water to both cool and calm down. He was sitting on the coffee table, running a hand down the side of her face.

He could kick himself for not even considering how overwhelming the experience might be for her. All the time he had had the notion that she might not be able to experience much or anything at all. But now he remembered the very first time he had shared something with her through a telepathic link.

His fingers travelled along her shoulder, his thumb brushing her clavicle, down her arm towards her wrist.

It had been the day they met, and he had shown her what it was like to feel the Earth moving and travelling on its elliptic path around the sun. It had taken her gaze a beat or two to return to him and the outside world.

He slipped his hand into hers.

Her hand had been so small in his, which back then had been bigger than it was now, and callused. If he had to fix a point in time when he had been lost to her, he'd pick that moment.

"What?" Rose asked.

He smiled, contemplating the back of her hand – wondering how her skin could be so soft – as he brushed his thumb over it. "I was thinking of the day we met." He raised his eyes to meet hers. "How good it felt to hold your hand."

When Rose didn't reply he realized the ambiguity of his words, and his smile faltered briefly. He knew, when it returned, that it didn't quite reach his eyes. Rose's grip around his fingers tightened as she used them as an anchor to pull herself up from the cushions. She touched the side of his face, mirroring his earlier caresses, and bent to whisper in his ear.

"You reminded me that I could feel the Earth moving beneath my feet." At her words he felt oddly light-headed, and a wave of pleasure washed over his back.

She kissed his cheekbone and sat back on the sofa. And smiled.

"But... " he began, "I... wasn't it something new to you?" He had always thought that showing her what the Earth's movement felt like was something only he could feel.

"You silly old Time Lord," Rose said, chuckling. She stood and held out her hand for him. He grasped it and led him to the hotel's swimming pool. No one was out here in the midday heat. The city wall had crumbled away in that part of the garden, so that the pool lay in the shadows only in the early evening. Deckchairs were scattered on the porphyry tiles around the turquoise pool, but there was also a bit of grass where the ground gently sloped towards the remnants of the city wall.

Rose sat down in the grass and lay back. "Join me."

The Doctor, curious, lay next to her. He let the palms of his hands hover above the green, allowing his skin to be tickled by the tips of the blades of grass. He inhaled deeply. "It's not apple grass."

"Rosemary," Rose replied, gesturing at the carefully manicured hedge that enclosed the pool area. For remembrance, he added silently, knowing that she knew.

"Look at the clouds," Rose instructed. "Pick a shape and look at it. Don't blink."

He whipped his head around to look at her. "What did you say?" The wave of memories that washed over him was not quite so pleasant.

"Why," Rose answered, meeting his gaze, bewildered. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No," he attempted a smile. "No, I... just remembered something. I'll tell you later." And he would. He really, for the first time in this world, wanted to tell her about one of his adventures without her. Before this, the thought had been too embarrassing, for a lack of a better word. It was silly, of course, not wanting to share because he had then been travelling with Martha.

"All right, then. Look at the clouds. Don't blink."

He looked at her instead, felt himself unable to look anywhere else. She looked so relaxed, and was yet so focussed on what she was doing, so peaceful, so content. He wondered if he could ever be like that. Oh, and had he mentioned how breathtakingly beautiful she was like this? He reached out to cover her hand with his.

Rose turned her head, finding him looking at her. "Clouds?"

"Right, yeah," he muttered, looking into the sky, trying hard to pick a shape and keep staring at it. And then he felt it. Ever so subtle, but it was definitely there, the feeling of moving through space. Oh so slowly, nothing like the tumbling he had experienced, very gentle. Safe.

"I can feel it," he said softly.

He turned his head as Rose rolled over and propped herself up on her elbow next to him, resting one hand above his heart. "I discovered this when I was a child, and I kept it a secret because I thought I was the only one who felt it," Rose said. Her fingers were sneaking underneath the shirt between the buttons, tickling his skin, grazing the hairs there. "I'd forgotten about it until the day we first met. It was never as powerful as when you showed me, though. Can... can you feel it now?"

His voice caught in his throat, so he merely nodded.

"Can you feel the tumbling now?"

He took a deep breath. "No." And in a lighter tone added: "And quite right too, because I'd get motion sickness and never see the end of it." He grinned his goofiest grin to cover up the loss of that particular Time Lord sense. He did not particularly miss that kind of sense. What gave him the pang was the thought that this was one more thing that he had not been born with. "It's a memory for me now. Just like it is for you."

Rose bent to kiss him, guarded at first, still remembering where they were, but as he cupped her cheek and met her, letting her set the pace of the kiss, she soon got lost in the two of them. Her scent and taste washing over him, mixed with the scent of dusty stones and rosemary. A scent he would never forget.

They made love in the cool twilight of their painted garden, unrushed and languid, taking their own sweet time. Afterwards they lay dozing for a while – thirty-seven minutes, eighteen seconds, the Doctor thought – trying to come back to themselves. He caressed her, lost in thought; just Rose was lazily trailing her fingers up and down his arm.

"Can we go to Pompeii?" he asked, glad that he had finally worked up the courage to ask her.

Rose turned her head to look at him. "Why would you want to go there?"

"I was there with Donna," he offered, "on Volcano Day. It... it's my fault that the city died. And I've never been back. Couldn't bear it."

"Doctor," Rose began. "Pompeii is different here. It's a living history museum. The Vesuvius is a dead volcano. Has been for thousands of years."

"No one died?"

"Well," Rose said. "No, not in a volcanic eruption."

He ran his hand through his hair, relief washing over him. At least there was one Pompeii that had been spared this fate. Another thought occurred to him, slightly unnerving, for it threatened to shatter the ideas from which he had meant to shape his future – their future, together.

"A lot of history's different here, isn't it? I mean, Britain's got a president. Pompeii never happened."

Rose placed a kiss on the palm that had been resting on her stomach and rolled over to face him. "I'm no history buff. A few things are different, yeah. Others aren't. Or not so much."

"I've been thinking, Rose," he began, "about what I'm going to do with myself here."

"Well, aren't you going to grow a TARDIS from your coral?" Her words came reluctantly, as if she were afraid she'd hurt him. Dear, sweet Rose. Brilliant Rose. His Rose.

"Would you like that?"

"I... I'm not sure," she said. "I very much wanted to, but I'm not so sure now. I had to... do some awful things to her." She then told him how she had used the TARDIS to create a time machine so Donna could go back and turn left and save him from himself.

The things these women had done for him. His heart clenched at the thought to what ends they had gone to save him, to get back to him. To stay with him. And they had not only done it once. It took him a while to wrap his Time Lord mind around that concept.

Rose's words pulled him up from his thoughts. "Could you do that, grow another TARDIS?"

He shook his head, chagrined. "Not in my lifetime."

"Will time travel be like this then, like what we did in the market place?"

He pressed his lips firmly together. "I can make improvements, but I don't think it will change much. I'm sorry it was so horrible for you."

Rose smiled and inched closer to him. "It wasn't that horrible. I was just... overwhelmed and unprepared. I'd never thought the 13th century could be so... noisy and..."

"Smelly."

She laughed through the mask of disgust in her face. "Oh yes." After a pause she continued. "So, do you want to go back to travelling?"

"Not if I can't do it with you. And it will be different. I'd probably have to go to the place in question first before I'd be able to go back in time. Well, unless I can come up with something like Jack's vortex manipulator, or something like that." He was trailing his fingers up and down her side, lost in thought.

"You could work on that," Rose suggested, ever so carefully, "at Torchwood."

"Nah," he said, glad she'd mentioned it. So he wouldn't have to in order to dismiss it. "I couldn't work for them."

"Torchwood really is different under Pete. As it is under Jack, too, I reckon."

He smiled. "I don't doubt that. I still couldn't. Not... when you're there, getting yourself in all kinds of danger. I'd go bonkers."

"So you'd rather sit at home, worrying?"

"Couldn't do that. I was thinking of... teaching. History. Done it before, as a human, too. Well, the human was just a disguise then, but... yeah, I enjoyed that," he mused, allowing the memories of John Smith the History teacher to wash over him, warmly, as he remembered Joan Redfern. Well, he'd been a different man then. Out of his mind. Time Lord hid away in a fob watch. Very different from now. As he noticed Rose's curious glance he realised how much he needed – wanted – to tell her; and not for a single moment did it cross his mind that he might not want to share everything with her. He owed her that much.

She grazed her fingernails over the afternoon stubble on his cheek. "I can imagine you teaching. You're good at that."

He felt his face crinkle up with his widest smile. "I am?"

"Yeah."

"You don't mind me not working for Torchwood?"

Rose sat up, kneeling on the bed next to him. "I want you to be happy, Doctor." She touched his cheek. "This is about your life, after all."

He smiled, chagrined, plucking her hand from his cheek to kiss her fingers and palm. I wish it were about _our_ life, he was meaning to say. But the words got stuck in his throat.


	11. Chapter 23

They spent some time exploring San Girolamo and its sights. To avoid straining his leg on the longer excursions, the Doctor used a single crutch. He had realised that it was a good idea if he didn't want to overstrain his leg. As they walked the city wall they had the most amazing view of the town and countryside, discovered charming little squares and impossibly narrow alleys and small gardens secreted in courtyards. But more often than not the Doctor was unable to get past the little book shops tucked away in the shady alleys of the town and the bookstalls in the market. Where ever they went, they would eventually end up back in the market square. The memory of the mediaeval market was nearly overpowering and Rose was grateful that the Doctor was holding her hand

He let go of it, of course, while he was browsing the books. Rose would stand, holding his crutch, trailing her fingers across the spines searching for a book in English, but they were few and far between and what she did find rarely caught her interest.

She glanced at her watch. She would still be able to make it to the concert, provided, of course, it wasn't sold out. "Doctor?" she said, touching his arm to get his attention.

"Mm."

"Look at me," she said, smiling.

When he did, Rose smiled. "What?"

She pulled the spectacles off their perch and kissed the tip of nose. "You already look like a history teacher."

"I do not!" he protested.

"A sexy history teacher?" Rose suggested, ducking. But he caught and kissed her. "I'm not."

"Well... I was wondering. Would you mind terribly if we met back at the hotel? I'm a little bored, and there's something I've seen that I'd like to do."

"But what about..." He gestured for the expanse of spines in front of them.

Rose smiled, lowering her eyes. Trust him not to notice. "Italian's not really one of my fortes."

"Oh." He sniffed. "Ah. Right then."

"See you back at the hotel. I'll bring lunch," she added as an afterthought. "Have fun."

"Yeah," he said, kissing her.

Rose was glad to leave the bustling market. She still felt ill at ease in the constant ebb and flow of bodies, voices and smells. Although the smells were much more pleasant than those of the mediaeval market, the odd unwashed body being the exception rather than the rule. The culture shock had just been too much for her; it shouldn't have been, what with her background and training. But she had been completely unprepared for the experience and that had made it quite a shock to her system.

She had tried to tell him, too, but he had been so busy fussing over her that he hadn't been listening, bless him. He had obviously been sorry, and not a little embarrassed, and she'd been unable to bring herself to tell him what had caused her reaction. There will eventually be a time and place to tell him.

Rose turned to look back at him before she left the square. The Doctor was so engrossed in his treasure hunt that he was oblivious to the world around him. Seeing him out and about in his short khakis and his new favourite shirt was still so unusual. More often than not Rose caught herself looking for him in a blue or brown suit, or his long coat. Rose smiled. He looked so calm, and totally at ease with himself and his surroundings. As if he had always been there. She knew that if that was anything to go by she should be happy, but... She knew him so well. He – they – still had a long way to go.

She checked her watch again. She would have to hurry if she wanted to make it to the concert. She hurried off towards the small Romanesque church they had discovered the day before. Retracing their steps, she found it easily enough. Luckily, the concert wasn't sold out, so she got a ticket, wrapped the shawl she had brought around her bare shoulders and found herself a seat in the back of the church. It was small, there were no aisles or transept, but it was famous for the original painted rafters and the excellent condition of the frescos. Sitting at the back gave her the best vantage point to appreciate the artistic details, as well as the way the sunlight filtered through the high windows exposing the dust dancing through the beams.

A grand piano had been set up on a dais in front of the altar, and as the pianist stepped up to it, bowed and sat, the audience fell silent. He began to play and as the first bars of music filled the spacious nave Rose relaxed and gave herself over to the music.

The pianist began to play one of her favourite pieces and Rose felt tears well up in her eyes. It was one of the few pieces of music that had touched her after she first came to this world. She had discovered it among Pete's collection, and from what he had told her about the composer, Rose was pretty sure that he had not existed back home.

Home.

She wiped her cheeks surreptitiously. It had taken her quite a long time to accept this place as her new home. She had learned that home was a concept rather than a place. Of course she considered her flat her home, her retreat from the world, but she had only ever felt at home with her family and friends. And even that had taken her long enough. Only when she had stopped mourning the Doctor had she started building a new life for herself.

And then the dimension cannon, an improbable theory, had become reality, and what she had deemed scars turned out to be barely healed wounds. The dream of going back to her old life was quickly becoming a possibility. A possibility that she had made reality. And at the end of a very long day the Other had returned that home to her. She knew that now, and she also knew what it had cost him to leave her behind, again, even when it was in the arms of Another Him.

Rose let her tears flow freely. They were good tears, and she decided not to be ashamed of them. They came quietly, and yet they were liberating. They were for the Other. Finally, she could mourn him, and feel for him. The loneliest man in the universe.

The concert was over all too soon, and as she stepped outside into the brightness of the summer day she took a deep breath. This had been a cathartic experience and she felt so much better now. She had finally been able to release the emotions she'd bottled up inside and her mind was free to call her feelings what they were, sympathy for and loss of a man who meant a lot to her. She was glad she had come alone. Her silent tears and the fact that she didn't need – or want – to be comforted would have broken the Doctor's heart.

She smiled and slipped on her sunglasses, ready to face this wonderful town. On her way back to the hotel she bought a wooden, three-dimensional jigsaw for Tony; he was still a bit young for it, but she knew he liked a challenge. For Pete she found half a dozen bottles of the local wine she had been enjoying so much, hoping that it would taste just as good beyond the Alps. For her mother she found a ridiculously luxurious silken dressing gown. Realising that it would be difficult to carry all of it with them on the train, especially the bottles of wine, she arranged for it to be shipped to her flat.

She would have almost passed by the shop selling artist's supplies if it hadn't been for a reflection in a window. When she looked a second time, she saw a selection of soft pastels on display, and Rose fell in love with the intense colours and the beautiful wooden box in which they came. She bought them, hoping the Doctor would be as struck by them as she, that he would like drawing with them.

Then she remembered she had promised to bring back lunch. She had already bought some cheese and fruit, and was waiting for the loaf of _ciabatta_ – still warm and dusty with flour and soot – to be wrapped for her when, again, a brief glimpse of something caught her attention. It was a flash of chestnut and gold, and a whiff of tanned leather, and when she turned around she saw the most beautiful satchel. It was the size of a briefcase, but could hold quite a few books. It was perfect for the Doctor. She had to have it, of course.

She should not have left him alone. When she returned to their hotel room with their lunch and the bag and the pastels, she found him sitting on the floor, surrounded by books. They came in all ages and sizes, and probably in just as many topics, too. He had arranged them in piles around himself, devising some system or other, and was leafing through them, still totally oblivious to the world. He was fast becoming a walking cliché.

She bent to drop a kiss on the crown of his head. "Hello, my love."

The Doctor snapped the book shut and jumped to his feet to pull her into one of his wonderfully crushing hugs. Rose returned it with all her might.

"Hello," he said, kissing her. Rose wondered if he had any idea what his laugh-lines did to her. Probably not. Not consciously, at any rate. "I've been missing you."

Rose sucked her lips in and then pursed them. "I needed some time to myself," she said, opting for the truth.

He took a step back, never letting go of her. "You look... relaxed."

She smiled. "I went to a concert. It worked wonders for me. It was beautiful. Remember that small church we found yesterday? That's where it was." He looked at her with curiosity, and she felt warmth wash over her. He sometimes knew her too well, and she had the oddest sensation he knew she had needed a good cry. Rose bit her lip, trying to shake off that thought. She was being ridiculous. Pulling free of him, she went to the door, where she had dropped her shopping, and produced the satchel from the paper bag. "You know, when I saw this, I thought you might have use for it," Rose said, holding the bag out for him. "It's not bigger on the inside, but it might just do anyway," she added self-consciously.

"Oh, but it's beautiful!" the Doctor beamed, accepting the satchel. He gave Rose a proper thank-you kiss. As he was examining it, he found the soft pastels, and once he realised what was in the wooden box, his grin became even wider. "You are amazing, Rose Tyler."

"I just saw them, and thought how perfect they were for you. Colours and bag," Rose replied. It was true, too, and while she had enjoyed giving him those gifts, she had not thought them that special or personal. But now that she had given them to him and seen his reaction, it struck her that these were things from which he could build his new, human life. Rose swallowed.

Their lips were only an inch or so apart when there was a knock on the door.

"Room service," Rose whispered, pressing her lips to his in a quick kiss. "That'll be the drinks I've ordered for lunch." On her way to their room she had ordered a bottle of wine and some water, and had asked for plates and cutlery to be sent along. She opened the door for the waiter, who managed to carry the ordered items out onto the loggia and leave without tripping over the Doctor's library scattered across the floor.

The Doctor watched in wonder as Rose unpacked the food she had brought. The bread had cooled, and his hands became black and white as he cut into its crust with a knife. There were cheese and fig jam, olives and Parma ham, and fruit for dessert. It was a simple, hearty meal, perfect for a long morning spent exploring, and together with the wine, the lunch left them contented and drowsy. The Doctor stood, finishing his wine, and curled around Rose on the sofa once he had got rid of the unnecessary cushions. He wrapped his arms around her and rested his head on her chest, draping a leg across hers. Rose's hands were magically drawn to his unruly mop of hair. She raked her fingers through his thick brown locks, enjoying the sensation of his hands caressing her through the material of her shirt.

"You really need a haircut," she said, chuckling.

The Doctor just hummed, too drowsy for a proper reply. A heartbeat or so later, his breathing had become deep and regular. The sleeping Doctor was something she still needed to get used to. For a while she didn't mind his his weight, and she was content to listen to his breathing and to caress him.

The man in her arms might have been born in battle, as the Other had said, but he had been born to save a life, and the TARDIS, not full of blood and anger and revenge. Not to commit genocide. That had been a decision he had made, just like she had what seemed like ages ago now. This was a scar they would share.

When his weight and warmth became uncomfortable in the cramped space of the sofa, Rose slipped gently out from underneath him, settling his head on one of the smaller cushions. Then she pressed a kiss on his temple. The Doctor mumbled something, but she shushed him softly, running her knuckles across the freckles on his cheek, which the sun had brought out nicely.

Three hours later she decided that the Doctor had had enough sleep. He hadn't found his sleeping rhythm yet. His body was probably still confused by the metacrisis, accommodating a Time Lord mind, essence, whatever, in a human body. He had shifted on the sofa so he was lying on his back, and his shirt had ridden up, exposing the pale, even plain of his stomach. Rose bent to breathe a kiss over his navel, and she smiled as he shivered. She knelt and began to kiss and lick his exposed skin, and when she looked up every now and then she saw the pleasure in his face, even when he was pretending to be asleep.

She undid the buttons of his shirt one by one, kissing and nipping the skin she uncovered, trailing her fingers through the hairs on his chest. Then she pushed the fabric aside and closed her lips around a nipple. The Doctor positively bucked under her. She gave the nipple a quick peck, then looked at him.

"Hey there, sleepyhead," she said, a twinkle in her eyes.

"I've had the most wonderful dream," he said, his voice gravelly with sleep and desire.

"Is that so." She rested her head on his chest and trailed lazy patterns on his skin with her free hand. His hand went to the back of her head.

"You were kissing me."

"Mm. Where?"

He looked at the neglected nipple.

"Liar," she whispered, but moved to kiss him there anyway. He moved his chest to meet her lips and sighed contently. When he cupped the side of her face, Rose turned her head to kiss his palm, the little mole that nestled in it, and the blue pulse-point on the inside of his wrist. Then she sat back and just looked at him. How could she possibly ever show him how much she loved him?

"Rose."

"I'm here."

"And a million miles away," the Doctor said, propping himself up on his elbow.

"No," she said, stretching to kiss him. "But I am. I am here. With you. Wondering."

"About what?"

Rose shook off the sentiment. If she didn't it would do so much damage. And they weren't ready to deal with that yet, not strong enough, not enough of a They Together. "What it was like making love to you in the shower," she said instead.

"Oh. That. Well, now that you mention it," the Doctor said, running his free hand through his impossible hair, "I can't seem to remember it that well either. Maybe, if we went to the bathroom, you know, the memories might return."

Rose nodded, a serious expression onto her face, and stood. She held out her hand for the Doctor, and when he grasped it, she pulled him up.

In the bathroom, memories returned, the most recent ones first. Of a screaming, crying Doctor, who wouldn't calm down until she drew him into her arms under the cold water. The Doctor squeezed her hand. They didn't need telepathy to know what they were thinking.

"No, not that one," he whispered.

"No."

"What about this one, though?" he asked, grabbing the hem of Rose's shirt and pulling it over her head. Rose lifted her arms automatically to help him.

"Nah, beats me," she whispered, pushing his shirt off his shoulders and down his arms.

"Hm." Off came her bra.

Rose shook her head, undoing the fastening of his khaki shorts. A few unsuccessful attempts at remembering later, they stood facing each other, naked, both of them ignoring the hard evidence that betrayed their memories. "We could, you know, turn on the water," Rose suggested, as the Doctor was opening a condom packet.

The Doctor closed the distance between them as the water started to cascade down on them, trapping his erection between their bodies, and removed her hair slide. He ran his fingers through her locks as the water soaked through them.

"I—" Rose squeaked, "I seem to remember now." She ran her hands up and down the wet skin of his back, over his bum and down the sides of his thighs.

"Yeah, it's... oh Rose," he said, bending to nuzzle her clavicle. He gripped her thigh and made her wrap her leg around his.

"Doctor," Rose gasped, letting her head fall back so the water washed over her face. Their game ended when she wrapped her arms around his neck. He lifted her up and as she settled in his arms, he slipped into her in one fluid motion. Rose buried her face in the crook of his shoulder, feeling his groan reverberate in his throat. She locked her legs around him to help him as she felt his grip around her tighten.

He moved them towards the wall, and Rose shuddered as her back touched the cool tiles. Her lips were close to his ear, her fingers were digging into the muscles of his back, leaving white marks. "G... go on, please, Doctor."

He set a rhythm, and almost from the beginning it was more forceful and needy than all the other times they had made love, but neither of them wanted this to last. Rose tried to meet his thrusts as best as she could, and each of them left her more breathless than the one before. She opened her mouth to cry out, but the sound got stuck in her throat, and she became light-headed far more quickly than usual. The Doctor's moans seemed to come from a distance, and she wanted to reach out for him, to tell him that she was okay, when something in her pulsed and spasmed, and with one forceful movement the world went blank around her.

"Rose?"

There were fingers in her hair, and something warm around her back. Her cheek was being showered with kisses. "Rose, love, are you all right?"

"'m here," she thought, feebly, unsure if the words had actually been audible. What had just happened? Her throat was so dry. What was... oh. She swallowed hard. "I... I think I remember now."

The Doctor laughed as he held her to him. "Yeah, me too. That was... brilliant. In it's own way."

When she had regained her senses, she noticed that they were sitting, warm water still cascading down on them, the spray caressing them in their daze. She flexed her muscles experimentally. He was still buried inside her.

The Doctor groaned, still a bit breathless. "Rose Tyler." She rose awkwardly, her limbs a bit sore, to clean him up.

"A shower would be nice now," she said, holding out her hand for him. To make up for the lack of foreplay, they took their time caressing each other as they washed. The Doctor rested his hands on her hips as he bent his head for her to wash his hair, and he sighed with pleasure as she massaged his scalp gently. After he had returned the favour, Rose made him wrap a towel around his waist and sit on the toilet seat.

She felt him watching her as she rooted through her sponge bag. She remembered seeing a pair of scissors at its very bottom, tucked away in the folds of the lining. They were haircutting scissors, and Pete had entrusted her with them. They were her mother's, really, but he'd made them disappear when Jackie wouldn't leave his hair alone, insisted on trimming it herself, even when they were more than well off enough to afford it having done. By the best, too.

"What are you up to?" he asked a bit warily.

"I'm going to give you a haircut."

Rose smiled as she found and fished them out of the bag. She slipped her fingers into the handles and moved them experimentally. She hadn't cut anyone's hair in ages. Not after she had met the Doctor. Before that, she had occasionally earned a little extra money that way. Nothing fancy, mostly just cutting ends. But it would do for the Doctor's hair.

Or so she thought.

The Doctor looked at her, embarrassed, and dragged his fingers through his damp hair. "It is a bit long, isn't it."

Rose nodded, and set to work. But his Time Lord hair seemed to have a mind of its own, and no matter what she did to smooth it down or trap it between her fingers, there was always at least one wilful lock.

"Doctor," Rose sighed. "Trust me. Relax."

He sighed, and from then on, his hair proved less bristly. Rose actually enjoyed trimming his hair, marvelling more often than not at how silky his damp locks were. The Doctor seemed to enjoy what she was doing, too, his eyes closed and she heard the occasional sigh slipping from his lips. Nevertheless, the Doctor stepped in front of the mirror when she was done, in mock-hesitation. He turned his head this way and that, bottom lip sticking out. Then he ran his fingers through his much shorter hair. "Yeah," he squeaked, "quite good, too."

Rose slapped his bum. "Quite!? It's bloody brilliant."

-:-

Two days later, they were on the train to Paris. They had booked a compartment with bunk beds and a tiny lavatory, to be more comfortable during the long journey. If the porter and the conductor were rather surprised by their comparatively small personal luggage and the enormously heavy box that contained the Doctor's books, they didn't comment on it. The Doctor had grinned and commented on the Agatha Christie feel of it all, which had lead to him telling Rose about the author's mysterious disappearance.

Rose lay on her back, her head resting in the Doctor's lap, watching the landscape flit past the window upside down. Sometimes she'd just stare at the blue sky and the clouds, pretending she wasn't moving at all. The Doctor was reading, smoothing back her hair with his free hand every now and then. She turned her head to look up at him, and smiled, tucking her tongue between her teeth in the corner of her mouth. Rose reached up to cup his cheek.

She removed her headphones. "Penny for your thoughts," she said softly into the monotonous beat of the wheels on the steel of the tracks. His eyes had been resting on the same page for a while; longer than it usually took him to read a page.

The Doctor settled the book on her stomach, took off his spectacles and looked at her. "I'll need a name. When you... you know, tell everyone who I am at your Garden Party."

"You don't need to be there if you feel uncomfortable. Maybe you should get settled in properly first before facing the press," Rose suggested, despite her initial plans. The press could be very demanding, and intimidating. But then again, the Doctor had faced worse opponents.

The Doctor shook his head. "I'd rather get it over with as soon as possible."

Rose nodded. That way, they'd leave them alone, and the Doctor would be able to really settle into his new life. "What's wrong with John Smith?"

"I don't feel like John Smith," he replied, stroking her hair with his thumb. "Not any more. It's... so Him."

"Did you have anything particular in mind?"

"Well... I was thinking of, maybe, but I'd have to ask Donna first. See if she'd mind," the Doctor said.

Rose suppressed a smile. He was so adorable when he was embarrassed. It was a side of him that was very Donna. Not that she'd seen Donna embarrassed very often, either. "I think it'd suit you. And she did bring you into this world, after all," she said.

"D'you think?" he asked, grinning that little boy smile of his.

"John Noble." Rose sat up and straddled him, wrapping her arms around his neck. His hands came to rest on her hips.

"John Noble. Doctor John Noble."

"Pleased to meet you, Doctor Noble," she said softly, then lowered her lips to his in a languorous kiss.


End file.
